


Fish in a Bowl

by ConnorRK



Series: Dirty Computer [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android synesthesia, Angst, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mid-Canon, Panic Attacks, Rape, Spoilers, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 12:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15315237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: “So as long as it’s not the face, it’s fine, huh?” Reed says. His free hand is suddenly on Connor’s neck, fingers soft against the line of his jaw, and the press of skin is hot. He lets it trail down the front of the CyberLife coat, and Connor can’t stop the shiver of his plates as they respond to the light pressure. “I’ve heard that before.”(Connor is forced to work with Gavin on the deviancy case when Hank is injured and relegated to two weeks of desk duty.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [碗中之鱼/Fish in a Bowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027778) by [woodencat1003](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodencat1003/pseuds/woodencat1003)



> Please read and heed the tags. This fic has graphic non-con, and is set mid-game, stretching the timeline of the game out a little bit. While this first chapter has no non-con in it, I will warn which chapters do so that you can skip it, if needed.
> 
> I wanted to explore Connor's mindset as he begins to deviate, as well as throw in a whole bucket of angst and hurt, and how he would deal with that as a machine. This fic is already complete, so you don't have to worry about me stopping half way through and no one ever seeing the end.
> 
> I also want to thank Kai, who has been so supportive of me and this fic, and helped me catch errors and get this ready for posting! :smooches:

Connor arrives with Hank to find the warehouse already swarming with officers and the bulk of the DPD’s investigation unit. It’s 5:40 a.m, partially cloudy, 30% chance of rain. The warehouse sits on the corner of a four-way stop, a three story brick-building built in the 1920s. There are lights on in every window, chasing away the darkness even outside. Connor analyzes the warehouse as they pull up in Hank’s car, and information appears in neat lettering on his HUD—4482 Airport Blvd, owned by Sampson Distribution, managed by Howard Byrd, 50 employees, 100 androids.

 A high chain-link fence covered in metal sheeting, the gate wide open, surrounds a cracked, beaten parking lot and loading bay behind the building. They pull in to find the bay doors rolled up, bright halogen light spilling out into the busy lot. Through the bay doors there are tall shelves of boxed items, forklifts, and what looks like bodies laid out on the floor. Officers are placing numbered yellow markers around the scene and cataloguing evidence, both in the warehouses receiving room and around the outside of the loading dock, moving carefully.

“Must have been a helluva night,” Hank mutters.

 Ben Collins appears, coming towards them across the lot as Hank pulls into a free space near a DPD evidence trailer. As they climb out, he waves Hank over quickly.

"Hey, you two. Glad you got here so quick. That must be a new record for you, Hank.”

Hank scoffs and jabs a thumb in Connor’s direction. “Yeah, well, you’ve got this asshole to blame. Wakes me up at ass-o-clock in the morning ringing my doorbell over and over, and for what? Looks like you’ve got this place well in hand.” He gestures impatiently at the swarm of officers.

CyberLife was always the first to be notified of cases involving deviant androids, and they sent Connor out to collect his human partner and investigate. Officer Wilson had once said, jokingly he thought, that Connor must have a built in radar to find the man, but Connor just used his knowledge of the man to calculate the likeliest of places.

Collins gives a short, friendly wave, saying, “Hey, Connor, thanks for dragging his ass out of bed.”

A number of optional acknowledgements slide into his view automatically, but the surprise of Collins’ casual greeting nearly catches him off guard. He barely processes his options as he says, “Of course, Officer Collins,” unbalanced by the almost friendly tone. Collins must be growing used to his presence.

“Yeah, sure, take his side,” Hank grumbles. “So, how bad is it?”

Collins holds up his tablet as he explains the situation. “Manager arrived at approximately 4:50 a.m., around thirty minutes ago. When he entered through the gate, he found the loading bay doors open, the lights on, and a bunch of androids laid out all over the receiving room and warehouse floor. He called 911, and first responders found two bodies by the android storage units.

“CCTV shows that most of the workers were out by 9:20 p.m. last night, with the exception of two maintenance workers, Jimmy Lowry and Talia Hartsfield. According to the manager, part of their job is to secure the androids in storage, make sure the other workers have left, and lock up. At 9:25 someone scaled the fence, entered through the open loading bay, and killed the maintenance workers by shooting them cleanly through the heads while they were securing the androids. Then they took the androids out and began taking them apart. They did that until 3 a.m., and took off back over the fence with some pieces of the androids.”

“Well, why the hell did you need us?” Hank grouses. “Sounds like someone stealing parts. We’re on the deviant case right now, we can’t examine every crime scene, Ben. No matter how big.”

Connor follows as they approach the loading doors, catching every word even as he begins to scan the scene, already gathering what Collins has yet to say. They wouldn’t have been called in unless they were needed.

“That’s just it, Hank. It wasn’t human, it was an android. We could see the LED on the cameras, and it was still wearing a CyberLife uniform.”

-

The reconstruction of the murder scene is unenlightening, as everything of relevance had been caught on camera. Connor takes a sample of the victims’ blood, much to Hank’s perpetual disgust, but there’s nothing new there either. The perpetrator is an RF700, a line of models often used in retail and office work, but he can’t identify a serial number. The only reason he’s sure of the model line is that the RF700 is clearly identifiable in the recordings—an android of average height, with jet-black curly hair and a strong face sculpt meant to be attractive and friendly to humans. It hadn’t bothered to hide or disguise any part of itself. The gun used on the workers was a Beretta M9, but until the medical examiner pulls the bullets from the bodies, he can’t get more than that.

All 100 androids are laid out on the floor of the warehouse, trailing between the shelves when the killer ran out of room on the main floor. Their memory chips are gone, their chests opened up, and their access ports have seen recent use. Whatever the killer was looking for, the androids’ central processors and memories were its main interest, though it did take several biocomponents and other parts.

As expected, there are no fingerprints or DNA evidence to find. The warehouse’s androids are all part of CyberLife’s MX series—sturdy androids meant for heavy lifting. Their faces are still, unnaturally so even for machines. It makes something in Connor’s circuits jitter strangely, a heaviness seeming to pull at him, to look at all these androids, most of them irreparably damaged, permanently shut down.

He thinks of the yellow sodium lamps glowing softly against the Traci’s blue hair in a dark back alley, holding hands with another Traci, and how he’d almost shot her. Should have.

Walking the aisles of shelves, following the trails of laid out androids, he examines and catalogues each one as he goes. Making sure he doesn’t linger over their deadened expressions.

He’s coming up on another investigator as he turns down an aisle of shelves—Gavin Reed is crouched over an android missing part of one arm, peering into its open chest.

He could move on to another row of androids, because there’s technically no need to examine an android that someone else is already gathering information on. But Connor trusts his own abilities to fully examine the crime scene more than Reed’s, especially considering Reed’s short-tempered nature.

Waiting for Reed to move is the more efficient choice. He stands patiently, hands at his sides, observing as Reed huffs an annoyed breath and suddenly stands and turns, stumbling back as he nearly runs into Connor.

“Woah, what the-? What are you doing, just standing around, you plastic creep?” he snaps.

Connor takes in the sudden tenseness of Reed’s face and the lines drawing between his brows and calculates Reed’s stress level at 40%. He also notes Reed’s glove-less hands.

“I am waiting for you to move so that I may examine the android,” Connor says simply.

“Yeah, well, don’t bother. This fucker’s got nothing on him,” Reed says snidely, nodding down at the android.

“I am sure that is the case. Still, I must examine him so that I can be sure.”

Reed’s stress level jumps to 60% as his furrowed brow turns into a full on glare. “Didn’t you hear me, or are your processors giving out? I said I _examined_ him, there’s nothing to find.”

“Yes, but I must be thorough. I will also need to make sure that you did not contaminate the evidence. I recommend you wear gloves when investigating a crime scene, Detective Reed.” Connor expects him to move now, but Reed’s lips curl into a sneer.

“I think I know how to examine a crime scene, you stupid fuck. Now move. _On_.”

Reed jaw is clenched, a vein pulsing in his neck, stress level climbing past 70% without stop, hitting 75%, 80%, and 85%.

Connor needs to de-escalate the situation, and get to the android to examine it. Several options appear on his HUD, routes he could take in this conversation. Connor decides the apologetic but direct approach should do it.

“I apologize, I did not mean to cast doubt on your capabilities as an investigator.” The stress level hits 90%, and then regresses down to 85% at Connor’s words as Reed raises an eyebrow expectantly. Satisfied with his decision, Connor continues, “However, you are not wearing gloves, so, as per protocol, I must determine how much of the crime scene may be contaminated now. And I still need to examine that android.”

Reed’s punch comes only a moment after his stress rockets to 100%, crunching against Connor’s nose. Connor stumbles into the shelves behind him, rattling the boxes. Processors kicking into overdrive, time seems to slow as his system reaches its maximum processing capabilities. Reed is swinging again, and options appear before him to incapacitate the detective.

They're needlessly violent—he doesn't have to hurt Reed to end this, just separate them from each other. As he runs over his options, Reed’s fist strikes him across the cheek, then again on the nose. His sensors flash with a yellow warning symbol. A hand fists in the front of Connor’s shirt, dragging him close, but Connor catches the next punch against his forearm and shoves Reed away.

Reed trips over the android and slams against the shelves on the other side of the aisle. The shelves rock alarmingly for a moment, and then settle back as Reed catches his balance. He stands straight, snarling, seeming ready to lunge at Connor again. His stress holds steady at 100%.

“Connor!”

They both turn sharply at the call. Hank stands at the end of the aisle, eyebrows raised at the scene.

“Hey, Reed, what the hell are you doing? Get back to work!”

“Why don’t you keep your plastic dog on a leash, Anderson?”

“Can’t believe the bitch wants to call someone else a dog,” Hank laughs mockingly.

Reed glares at Hank, and then turns it on Connor, who watches him blankly. Then he storms off in the other direction, seemingly nothing to say to that. Connor watches until he turns the corner of the aisle.

“You okay, Connor?” Hank’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, and Connor didn’t realize how tense he was, prepared to fight Reed if he had to, until every servo seems to go lax beneath that warm hand.

“Just fine, Lieutenant.” He adjusts his shirt and smooths his tie, turning back, and Hank’s eyes widen.

“Jesus, what’d he do to your face?”

A yellow warning symbol flashes in the corner of his HUD, informing him that non-critical components in his face have sustained damaged. Repair time: 1 hour. Now that he’s focusing on it, he can feel the plates in his face are out of alignment, and talking makes them grind against each other unpleasantly. “Nothing major. It will be repaired within an hour.”

“You’re bleeding!” Connor lifts a hand to his face, tracing cheek and nose experimentally, and feels warm liquid dripping down his top lip. His fingers come away blue.

Hank is digging through the pockets of his worn jacket, which Connor refrains from pointing out needs replacing. After a moment, Hank holds out a wad of tissues. Connor takes it, and then stares at the wrinkled tissue.

“I’m not a trash-cleaning android,” he says.

“Oh my god, it’s for your face, you idiot.”

He must mean the thirium—the sight of it must be unsettling. Connor brings the wad to his nose, pressing uncertainly at the thirium to cover it. It drips into his mouth, and his sensors automatically bring up his model and serial number.

“Thank you. I will keep this covered until the damage is repaired.

He checks to see if this has satisfied Hank’s disgust, but if anything, he only looks more annoyed. “This is pathetic, I can’t watch this,” Hank mutters. He leans in suddenly, snatching the tissue from Connor and shoving his hand out of the way. Then he rubs at Connor’s nose with the wad, surprisingly gentle considering the slight frown and creased brow.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asks.

“Just shut up. It’s like watching a baby. You’re supposed to wipe it off, not just stand there covering your face.” Hank grumbles, and pulls back, nodding slightly in apparent satisfaction.

“I see.” He doesn’t. Hank could have told him how to do it.

“Yeah,” Hank says, seeming to hear the doubt in Connor’s voice. “Yeah, sure. Anyways, let’s head out and file that report. Or I could just sock Reed in the face—way more satisfying.” Hank starts down the aisle, back the way he came.

“A… report?” Connor says, confused. “I haven’t finished examining the crime scene.”

Hank looks back, sees Connor hasn’t moved, and turns around fully, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Connor, Reed just punched you in the face and gave you a nosebleed. What do you think we’re going to file a report for? That’s physical assault.”

Connor stares blankly. “An android cannot be assaulted, Lieutenant,” he says simply.

That crease appears between his eyebrows again, and he opens his mouth, pauses, and finally says, “Right. Well, Reed’s an asshole and he can’t just treat you however he wants. We’ll file a report for—oh shit, I don’t know, damaged equipment or something.” Hank breathes out through his teeth, almost a hiss. “Fuck, c’mon Connor, we’ll look at the evidence back at the station. There’s nothing more to see here anyways.”

He looks down at the android at his feet, that he’d meant to examine when Reed was done. His mission appears at the side of his HUD, a column of stark white boxes reminding him of his goals.

_// Investigate Scene //_  
_// Examine Androids //  
_ _// Locate Suspect //_

The android’s eyes stare blankly up at him, cold and empty. Its chest plate has been removed, some of its components disconnected and in pieces at its side, leaving a dark, gaping hole looking in on its unmoving thirium pump. Its hands are resting palm-down on the floor at its sides, lax and empty. Just a machine.

“Connor! Get a move on!” Hank calls, voice receding down the aisle.

Connor reasons that it would be beneficial to file the report, to deter Detective Reed from interfering with him again. If the internal processors in his head had been damaged, he could have lost valuable information regarding the deviancy case.

His systems, seemingly satisfied with the conclusion, overwrite his goals.

_// File Report //_  
_// Investigate Evidence //  
_ _// Locate Deviant //_

Something in his chest feels warm, like his servos are overheating. He runs a diagnostic on his thermal regulation system, and it comes back negative for damage or error. It’s a pleasant warmth, and the jittery feeling of before dissipates.

He steps past the android and follows Hank to his car, ignoring the software instability warning in the corner of his vision.

-

Fowler looks at the three of them with utter contempt. Connor remains silent, standing behind Reed and Hank as they talk rapidly over each other, their voices steadily rising. Connor doesn’t need to run a calculation to know that Fowler is very stressed, but his system offers one anyways—80%. Fowler hasn’t said a word since he called them into his office.

“I was doing my fucking job-”

“Reed’s had it out for Connor since day one-”

“-this piece of shit tries to tell me what to-”

“-punched him in the fucking face, there was blood-”

“-shoved me into the fucking shelves, got a bruise the size of-”

“Enough!” Fowler’s bellow silences them both, and he stares them down for a few moments, as if waiting for one of them to dare speak again. “Lieutenant Anderson, tell me, why have you filed a complaint against Detective Reed for damage of government property and misconduct, when it looks to me like your android is perfectly fine?”

Hank sputters for a moment, and Connor can’t see his face, but can clearly recall any number of outraged looks Hank has worn before.

“Connor was just doing his damn job when Reed thought it would be fun to punch him in the face and break his damn nose! He’s repaired himself now, but there was a lot of blood, and if Reed had punched a human, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Hank crosses his arms, looking back and forth between Fowler and Reed.

“Detective Reed,” Fowler says. “Pray tell, what possessed you to punch and possibly damage a machine currently on loan to the DPD by CyberLife?”

Hank grunts sarcastically at the word “possibly.”

“Like I said, I was doing _my_ fucking job, and this plastic prick starts to criticize my work, trying to provoke me. If anything, we should be checking that thing for deviancy. It shoved me into the shelves.”

Fowler looks at them silently for another moment, says, “Connor. Give me a report on what happened.”

Hank and Reed both twist almost simultaneously to look at Connor, as if they’d forgotten he was there.

“Of course, Captain. I was investigating the androids for any evidence of what the deviant suspect was looking for, and whether it had left behind anything. Detective Reed was examining an android, and I waited for him to finish so that I could examine it as well-”

“Yeah, as if I don’t know how to examine a fucking scene.”

“Detective Reed,” Fowler says warningly, and Reed huffs but falls silent.

“When he was done,” Connor continued, “I noticed that he was not wearing protective gloves and the crime scene could possibly be contaminated. I advised him to wear gloves at future crime scenes, and told him I would also have to examine the android for contamination. He punched me three times in the face before I pushed him away from me. Lieutenant Anderson found us like that.”

Fowler once more lets the silence of the room settle around them. When he speaks, his voice is heavy with annoyance. “Detective Reed, please refrain from punching our equipment in the future or you will be facing suspension. Same goes if I find out you aren’t wearing gloves at a crime scene.”

“What?” Reed bursts out, at the same time Hanks says, “That’s _it?_ ”

Reed’s voice quickly overtakes Hank’s. “Are you serious? It’s like hitting a fucking copy machine, it’s not even damaged! Look at it, it’s fine. You telling me you’d suspend me for one little love tap?”

It was true, Connor’s auto-repair function had been able to take care of the damage easily. His facial plates were realigned, and the burst component that helped regulate his olfactory sensors had been repaired. Serious damage had to be taken to CyberLife, where they would determine if he was salvageable or scrapped, but even they couldn’t save damaged data.

“Valuable information regarding our investigation of the deviancy case could have been lost, had my internal processors been damaged,” Connor says.

“Shut the fuck up!” Reed barks. “Captain, are you serious?”

“Yes, Reed. If you do it again, you are suspended. No more arguments. Now get out of my office.”

Reed storms out, sparing a sharp glare for Connor, the glass door swinging quickly closed behind him.

“So that’s it then? A slap on the wrist? After he hurt—or damaged, whatever—Connor?”

“Hank,” Fowler sighs, leaning back in his chair. “It's an android, not a person. It doesn't even feel pain. If it can't take a hit, why is it even here? I know you and Reed have it out for each other, but this is ridiculous. Trying to report him over an android, Hank? Don't bother me with your petty feud with Reed again, or I'll suspend you, too.”

“Fowler, that’s not-”

“I don’t care, Hank. We’re done. Now get out.”

They glare at each other, and Connor privately hopes Hank will drop it. Reed has been warned and probably won’t try anything like that again. That’s more than Connor had expected to happen. There’s no need to drag this out longer and risk Hank getting into real trouble on Connor’s behalf.

Connor reaches out and lightly taps Hank’s elbow, and Hank reluctantly breaks the glaring match, leaving silently. Connor nods to Fowler, who ignores him, and follows.

Hank drops into his chair and leans back, crossing his arms. Connor goes around to his own, sitting down to scroll through the information regarding the collected evidence.

“That was,” Hank says, then stops.

Connor looks up from his screen, tilting his head slightly in question. Hank glares at the black screen of his terminal, lips pressed thinly together.

“Sorry, Connor,” Hank says, voice nearly casual. “Thought Fowler might actually do something about Reed.” He snorts. “Shows what I know.”

Connor senses the disappointment in his tone, and feels the urge to reassure him. “He did do something. Detective Reed has been advised not to punch me again.” Hank says nothing, still watching the blank screen, so he adds, “Thank you, Lieutenant. I know you were only trying to protect me, and while it is not necessary, I am glad that Detective Reed has been deterred.”

The sides of Hank’s lips quirk up slightly, and he sighs, leaning forward and shaking his mouse to wake it up. “Yeah, right, no problem.” Despite his nearly sarcastic tone, there is something pleased underneath.

Connor’s own lips twitch into an involuntary smile.

-

“Hey dipshit, come here.”

Vocal recognition software identifies Gavin Reed’s voice calling to him from one of the tables in the break room, but Connor ignores him, moving to the coffee machine.

“That was an order.”

Connor weighs the pros and and cons of answering as he pours the cup of coffee he'd offered to get Hank, and decides that there’s no benefits to talking to Reed. He remains silent as he pours in a packet of sweetener.

Footsteps approach him, and a hand grips his arm, jerking his upper body to the side so he’s forced to acknowledge Reed. Hot coffee splashes across the back of his hand, hot enough to scald according to his thermal regulator, which rushes to balance the temperature in his hand.

Connor sets the cup down carefully and faces Reed fully, resigned to this confrontation. They’re standing in front of the section of wall made of glass, looking out into the station, so it’s not likely Reed will try anything with the potential for anyone to look up and see what’s happening. Fowler’s warnings from yesterday should also still be fresh.

“What, don’t have anything to say?”

“Can I help you, Detective Reed?” Connor says politely. He examines Reed’s twisted lips and stiff shoulders, and calculates Reed’s stress level at 40%. It holds steady for the moment.

“Yeah, you sure can. Why the fuck did you go running to Fowler? I thought you were a machine, not a fucking kid,” Reed says. He’s still gripping Connor’s upper arm, and the pressure-sensitive plates squeeze together uncomfortably.

Connor considers saying that Hank had been the one to file the report, and was the one who suggested it in the first place, but Reed’s problem is with Connor at the moment. He needs to make Reed understand that his actions could have been harmful to their investigations. As an officer of the law, he should recognize this. And a part of him doesn’t want to drag Hank into this. If Reed says anything to Hank, and Hank decides to take it up with Fowler again, he could be suspended. That would be counter-productive, he decides.

“My primary processing and memory hardware is located in my head. Significant damage could result in the loss of important information relevant to the investigation, as well as time.” There, that should be simple enough to understand.

“Oh, I get it,” Reed says.

Connor nods, relieved that Reed understands, and tugs against the hand on his arm. It tightens.

Reed takes a step forward, and Connor tries to match it with one back, but his hips hit the counter. Reed is smiling, a twisted thing that looks more angry than happy. His stress level climbs to 50%.

“So as long as it’s not the face, it’s fine, huh?” Reed says. His free hand is suddenly on Connor’s neck, fingers soft against the line of his jaw, and the press of skin is hot. He lets it trail down the front of the CyberLife coat, and Connor can’t stop the shiver of his plates as they respond to the light pressure. “I’ve heard that before.” He laughs and closes the remaining distance, until they’re nearly pressed to each other.

It sounds like a threat, but the hand running down his chest is light, belying the tight grip on his arm. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Reed’s stress holds steady, twisted smile unreadable. Connor scans the glass window, but no one in the station is looking in their direction. There are no cameras in the break room, and the one that looks onto it from the interrogation rooms doesn’t have a clear view inside.

“I’m not sure what you are suggesting, so I would remind you that Captain Fowler will suspend you if you attempt to damage me again.”

Reed just laughs at that. His grip loosens finally, and he steps back, patting Connor’s chest.

“You’re a machine, not a person. I doubt Fowler cares that much.”

-

"This is bullshit,” Hank grumbles as he finally lowers himself into his chair, practically throwing the crutch against the short wall his desk rests against. It clatters to the floor, and Connor picks it up almost immediately, leaning it against the wall.

“It will only be for one to two weeks, Lieutenant. And we did catch the android, so there is a positive to the situation.” Connor goes around to his own desk and sits down, still looking at Hank.

“Yeah, sure. Stupid asshole didn’t have to stab me though. We already had him, so it’s not like it would change anything.”

They’d been called to the scene of an assault where an android had attacked his owner. The android was still on a rampage when they arrived, but as soon as he’d seen them, he’d bolted. Connor had caught him before he’d managed to clear the wooden fence surrounding the property, and Hank had come over to help subdue him. But the asshole fought them and managed to grab a chunk of a broken glass bottle and stab Hank in the thigh.

They’d gone straight to a hospital afterwards, at Connor’s insistence, and Hank couldn’t come up with an excuse not to, because his leg was bleeding profusely and he knew enough about anatomy to be worried the plastic prick had gotten an artery. A doctor stitched it up and told him to use a crutch for 3 days before turning him loose, and now Hank’s dreading what he knows is coming.

“So, Connor. Might be missing out on my absolutely charming presence soon,” he says, as considers filling out the official report, and then decides fuck it. Fowler will notice soon enough.

“What do you mean?” Connor asks.

Hank looks back to him, and sees the tilt of his head, LED spinning yellow. “Guess it’s probably not a major concern to androids, but when a human gets injured, it tends to take a while to heal up enough for work.”

The yellow cycles to blue and Connor nods, looking towards Hank’s leg and the bandage wrapped tight under his torn pants. “Yes, I see. Do you suppose I will be reassigned until you’re able to return to the field?”

Connor’s face gets a pinched look—clearly he doesn’t like the thought of that. Despite himself, Hank is pleased Connor will miss his presence.

“Yeah, probably Officer Person or Brown, if I had to guess,” Hank says, putting a hand to his chin in thought. “They normally work with one of the station androids, so Fowler will probably just switch you with one of them for a while.”

“Well, as long as you take care of yourself, you should be back quick enough,” Connor says optimistically, as if Hank has ever taken care of himself. “I hope this doesn't interfere in the investigation. I’ve come to value your input a great deal.”

Hank’s jaw drops slightly, and Connor quirks his head in that weirdly cute way of his, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, don’t get all mushy on me, you damn android,” Hank says, looking away quickly, feeling his cheeks heat. Connor valuing his insight in any way is a shock after Hank drunkenly pulled a gun on Connor and interrogated him on whether he was scared to die.

His gut twists in a mixture of shame and self-loathing at the memory of his shaking finger on the trigger. What kind of piece of shit was he, that he’d threatened to shoot Connor after Connor had shown- _compassion_ for another being, even another couple of androids?

Every day Connor was seeming more and more human, and Hank didn’t know what to make of that. He was an android. He was supposed to be a machine, but he came in with that goofy face, saving Hank from falling off a building and doing exactly what Hank would have done if it had been him against the two Tracis.

His throat is dry, and he wishes he had gone home instead of coming back to the precinct. Poured himself some whiskey and sat with Sumo and watched some mindless TV before passing out.

“Hank,” a call comes from across the room, and they both turn to see Jeffrey striding towards them from his office. “Connor submitted the report about what happened, so you know what happens now.”

Snorting, Hank shoots a glare over at Connor. “When did you have time to submit a report?”

“While you were being stitched up, I thought it would be wise to notify Captain Fowler of the situation,” Connor says, smiling innocently.

Fowler encompasses them both in a single look. “You’re on desk duty until that heals.”

“Yeah, yeah, saw that one coming a mile away,” Hank mutters. “So who’re you putting on the case with Connor? Person, right? She’s use to working with androids, she should be fine for a couple weeks.”

“Until Hank recovers, you’ll be placed with Detective Reed,” Jeffrey says, nodding at Connor.

Hank bolts up in his chair, and then hisses as a lance of pain shoots through his leg. “Ow, fuck! Fuck, fuck, now hold on, you can’t place Connor with Reed, Reed hates his fucking guts.”

Connor’s LED has cycled to yellow again, and his eyebrows are pinched together, but he doesn’t say anything. Course he wouldn’t. Idiot doesn’t even know when he should defend himself properly. He said he let Reed get three licks in on him before pushing him off, and Hank’s seen Connor fight. He doesn’t get hit unless he lets himself get hit.

“This is the perfect opportunity for Reed to get over himself, then,” Jeffrey says, and Hank just shakes his head.

“What are you gonna do when he tries to punch Connor’s head off again? Pat him on the back and say ‘be more careful’?” Jeffrey levels him with a glare now, and Hank matches it stubbornly. Someone’s gonna have to defend this damn android.

“I believe I’ve made myself clear on that subject already, as well as the subject of your and Reed’s little disputes. I don’t want to hear it, Hank. Connor, make sure Reed gets the files on the deviancy case.” He departs with a nod, his dress shoes clicking smartly on the tiles as he heads back to his office.

“Looks like you’re stuck with Reed,” Hank says, slumping back down into his chair and rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Connor nods absently, his LED still cycling yellow, staring down at his desk.

“Sucks to suck.” When Connor says nothing, watching the desk blankly as if he doesn’t know what to do, Hank adds, “Hey, if he tries anything like last time, let me know. If Fowler won’t do anything about Reed, I sure as hell will.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Connor turns to his terminal and data flashes across the screen at an impossible rate. “But I can handle Detective Reed until your recovery is complete. I’ll be sure not to provoke him.”

Hank could be imagining the slightly sarcastic lilt to Connor’s voice at the end, but he doesn’t think he is. Maybe he’s rubbing off on the android a little too much. The thought makes him grin, and he promptly hides it by propping his elbow on his desk and leaning into his hand, pulling up the new work assignments on his computer.

He glances up one last time, and when Connor looks over at the motion, his LED has settled blue again, so Hank gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope yall enjoy, please drop me a comment and let me know what you thought!


	2. Chapter 2

****The silence between them is tense, and reminds Connor of the first time he’d been in Hank’s car on the way to the Ortiz murder. Except Hank had made his displeasure clear with loud death metal music. Reed just drives, knuckles tight on the wheel, having disabled the automatic system as soon as they got in.

Connor judges his stress level at 45%, but steady. It always seems to be above 30% when Connor is near him, and while that shouldn’t bother him, some part of him sees it as unreasonable. Why does Reed hate him so much?

Hank makes a show of hating androids, but his rudeness and sarcasm seem to be directed at everyone, humans and androids alike. And Hank’s attitude towards androids seems more and more like a show at this point, or a habit. Just another thing to complain about.

Reed doesn’t treat the precinct’s androids the way he does Connor. Or he does, but not to the same degree. He calls them “plastic pricks” and treats them like furniture in a room. He treats Connor like a target, arguing against anything Connor says, no matter how innocuous.

Perhaps it would be best to address the tension, and make it clear Connor will be doing his best to keep the distance Reed obviously wants.

“I am aware my presence causes you some stress,” he says into the emptiness, choosing a diplomatic option. “I would advise we investigate the scene quickly, so that our time together is more limited.”

“Oh, is that what you _advise?_ ” Reed says sarcastically, stress level abruptly hitting 60%.

Connor says nothing else, not wanting to start yet another argument, which Reed’s stress level is obviously indicative of.

Eventually they pull up to the curb in front of a CyberLife store, the front crossed with holo-tape to ward off the curious onlookers. And there are many as the morning traffic picks up and people arrive to begin their day’s business in the shopping center.

They exit the vehicle without a word and approach Officer Collins, who is standing near the front doors.

“Hey Gavin, Connor. Sad to hear about Hank.” This he directs to Connor. “Hope he gets better soon. I’ll swing by later and bring him a gift. Know anything he’d like to have?”

“Alcohol seems to be a favorite of Lieutenant Anderson’s,” Connor says, and is pleased when Collins laughs.

“You got that right!”

Beside them, Reed huffs impatiently. “Can you quit talking to the hunk of plastic and actually tell me what happened?”

Collins, seemingly unperturbed by Reed’s rudeness, says, “Right. Got a call at 7:30 a.m. when Jackie Quinn, an employee, arrived to prepare the store for its opening. She let herself in through the front, and found all the androids in the store on the floor, opened up, picked apart, and another employee dead in the back room.”

Connor can see the androids laid out through the glass store-front, just like at the warehouse. Chest plates removed, memory chip slots empty on their heads, access ports exposed at the base of their necks, components missing on some.

“The employee called 911, first responders secured the area and got a look on the cameras. At 11:15 last night, just after closing, as the night shift employee, David Harker, was leaving, an android approached from the street with a gun and forced him back into the store. He made the employee lock the doors, walked him to the back room, and shot him in the head. Then he got the androids and laid ‘em out and, well, you know the rest.”

“Thank you, Officer Collins.” Connor breaks off from them and enters the store, ready to get to work.

Reed, not to be outmatched, follows swiftly. The both head straight to the body, and Reed huffs in annoyance when Connor reaches it first, crouching next to it and immediately touching his fingers to the pool of blood gone tacky beneath its head.

“Hey, what the hell?” Reed says as Connor brings the fingers to his lips.

The blood against his tongue registers as coppery and the analysis brings up an ID and file for James Hobbs, 35 years old, manager of three years.

“Did you just-?” Reed begins, and then goes silent.

Connor looks up at him briefly. “I am equipped with an analysis program—essentially a forensics lab in my mouth. I have positively identified the victim as James Hobbs.” Then he returns to investigating the body, checking the pockets and searching for any other evidence that may have been left behind. He finds a patch of dried blue blood on the inside cuff of his uniform, but when he scrapes a flake off with a nail and raises it to his tongue, the analysis brings back an unsold model currently still in the store. Likely one of the androids laid out on the floor.

Shoes linger in the corner of his vision, and he glances up again to find Reed staring at him intently. Or more accurately, at his mouth. Connor raises an eyebrow questioningly, but Reed shakes his head once and then strides away without a word.

He can’t help but think of Hank’s reactions. Hank never fails to act disgusted when he sees Connor analysing evidence, but at the same time, Connor can tell that Hank is a little impressed. Reed didn’t look disgusted or impressed.

He looked calculating.

Connor decides to push the incident to the back of his files as he stands. Whatever Reed thinks of him doesn’t matter. Reed has been argumentative and mildly violent, but Fowler’s threat of suspension should keep him in line.

Next, he finds the security office and views the footage, watching as the RF700 shoots the officers and begins pulling them off their displays. It still hasn’t bothered to cover its LED or the CyberLife uniform it was probably sold in. The gun appears to be the same Beretta M9. So far everything is almost exactly the same as the warehouse.

Then it does something different. It clasps arms with the first android it comes to. The skin of the RF700 and the store model melts away as they exchange information. Then it makes the model lie down and opens it up.

Connor makes a special note of that. The RF700 is definitely looking for something specific from these androids. It could be a part, one that CyberLife doesn’t release the specs for, so that they can keep their grip on the android distribution industry. Information is more likely, as the RF700 has expanded its search from a single model line.

What is it looking for?

It starts with their chests, removing their plates and inspecting their inner workings, removing components and biocomponents and seemingly looking for some kind of reaction from the android. When it’s done, it touches a finger to the android’s access port, and sits still as it browses the internal software, files, and servers of the androids. The store models sometimes twitch as it does this, or seem to say something, but the cameras are not equipped with any microphones, and don’t allow for a good angle to lip-read.

When it’s done with that, it disconnects and pulls their memory chips, moving on to the next one in the displays.

There are six cameras set up—one on the front door, one on the back, one on the register, one in the office, and two looking at the front display room from opposite sides of the store. Connor is watching all of them at once, so when movement happens in the camera facing the right side of the store, his attention snaps to it.

An android by the door to the backroom, in a display section clearly marked for used and pre-owned models, is slowly reaching its arm up. It’s an AX400 model, and as Connor watches, it carefully removes its memory chip and tucks it into the pocket of its CyberLife uniform. The RF700, preoccupied with its current task, doesn’t notice. When the AX400’s memory chip is hidden, it returns to its resting state.

Connor fast forwards through the hours as the RF700 makes its way through the androids. When it comes to the AX400, they connect and exchange information, and the RF700 spends even less time than the others pulling the AX400 down and opening it up.

When it realizes the AX400 has no memory chip, it shows its first sign of emotion, slamming its hands on the ground in frustration. It sits by the android for a few moments, seemingly thinking of what to do next. Then it gets up and, with keys it stole from the night shift employee, lets itself out of the front door and locks it afterwards.

So, the AX400 was deviant. It had figured out what the RF700 wanted, and hidden its memory chip. And the RF700 hadn’t found it.

Connor leaves the office and finds the AX400 where the RF model had left it. Its face is still and lifeless, long black ponytail splayed like a halo around it’s head. Biocomponents are scattered around the android, inexpertly removed and cracked, or outright broken. He makes a note of which parts are damaged as he drops to one knee, tucks two fingers into its pocket, and pulls out the memory chip.

Someone approaches from behind, and when Connor stands and turns, he notes that Reed is wearing gloves today. Hank would have remarked about it, probably sarcastically, and Connor can’t contain a slight smile at the thought.

“Wipe that smug look off your fucking face,” Reed snaps. “What did you find?”

The memory chip glints under the fluorescent store lights as Connor passes it to him. “This AX400 hid its memory chip from the culprit. I’m not sure what it was looking for, but when it realized the chip was missing, it displayed frustration and anger.”

For once, Reed doesn’t say anything rude or disparaging, turning the chip curiously in his hands. When he passes it back, he says, “Have forensic bag it and the lab techs will look it over.”

“I’ll request the android as well,” Connor says. While the others will be taken back to CyberLife for recycling, this one might be repairable, and they can get more information from it if so.

“What for? We’ve got its memory chip, what else is there to get?” Reed shoots him a sharp look.

“The AX400 could still hold information that it didn’t transfer to its memory chip. It would be for the best if we take it back with us, to repair and interview.” He thinks of how it had been so careful to wait for the RF700 to turn its back. How it had hidden the memory chip and stayed still, even though it new what fate awaited it. Why had it done that? If it was deviant, why hadn’t it fought?

“I’m not dragging another one of you plastic pricks back to the station. One of you is enough, and it’s a waste to fix up something that’s just going to get destroyed later anyways. Let it go.” Reed’s voice rises in command, and Connor can see many of the investigation unit glancing at them periodically.

Connor finds his grip on the memory chip has tightened, and he relaxes his hand. His own stress levels seem to have risen. “I’m afraid I must insist, Detective Reed. The AX400 could contain valuable information about what the culprit wanted, and it would be best if we have it repaired. I’ll request forensics bring it back with them.” It had let itself be torn apart. It had foiled the culprit and then let itself be deconstructed and picked over. It should be—

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he thinks they should do with it. Part of him doesn’t want it to go back to CyberLIfe. If it was deviant, it had still tried to pretend otherwise. To behave like any other android.

“I’m ordering you right now to leave the damn thing where it is,” Reed barks, and now everyone is openly watching them.

“My own orders supercede yours, Detective.” Connor finds he has to fight to keep his voice even and calm. “I will not jeopardize my mission just because you can’t see the importance of the evidence.” It sounds like an excuse for some reason, though it’s the truth. This android could be very important to figuring out what the RF700 was looking for.

He doesn’t wait for Reed to argue back, turning to the nearest forensics investigator. Reed’s stress has hit 100%, and Connor finds he just doesn’t care. There’s no point in trying to reason with someone determined to fight him at every step.

As he moves around the scene and investigates the rest of the androids, it’s difficult to keep his face blank. His processors seem to whir into overdrive in his head, and it’s hard to process information through the static feeling that makes him want to throw something just to clear it.

-

The ride back is more tense, if possible, than the ride to the scene had been. Reed fumes the whole way and Connor can’t clear the static feeling from his head. He ignores Reed and runs diagnostics, but they come back clean. The software instability warning clips in and out on his HUD.

They pull to the back of the station, into the lot, which is mostly empty of cars at this time of day. Hank’s old sedan is parked haphazardly between two spaces, and it makes Connor smile. Hank may not be on the case at the moment, but Connor is eager to explain the details of the scene and what he’d found to the lieutenant.

As soon as they’re parked, Connor unbuckles and reaches for the door handle, but the click of locks engaging is loud in the small space. Reed turns the car off, the sudden silence deafening, and Connor tilts his head slightly. Does Reed want to talk? Perhaps he wishes to apologize for his behavior. That’s probably too much to expect, given Reed’s record. His stress level hovers at 90%.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Detective Reed?” he says, when Reed remains silent. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Reed glares at the steering wheel, hands gripping it tight, as if trying to twist it between his hands. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm. “Maybe because you’re a stupid piece of plastic taking the jobs of people who actually work to get where they are?”

“I understand your hatred of androids. But you don’t treat any of the other androids in the precinct the way that you do me. I have never seen you argue with them, or punch them.”

Abruptly Reed lets go of the wheel and reaches for Connor, hands going to his collar and yanking his tie loose. Then Reed is unbuttoning Connor’s shirt, and Connor watches silently, struggling to find a reason for the man’s actions.

“Detective Reed, this is highly questionable behavior. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Reed says lightly, the numbers of his stress ticking steadily up in Connor’s vision. When the shirt is open to his stomach, Reed runs his fingers over Connor’s sternum questingly, and then just below it.

Connor processes the point Reed touches a moment too late. Fingers dig into his body, skin receding to reveal white plastic. He hears the click of his thirium regulator disconnecting and his processes slam to a halt. His visual processor shuts down and then reboots, warning signs flashing red across his HUD. His vision shakes and glitches as a countdown appears.

_// VITAL S4STEM DAMAGED //_

_// -00:01:45 //_  
_// TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN //_

An alarm blares in his system and his limbs go weak, thirium no longer reaching the biocomponents needed to function. His thirium pump and biomechanical lungs throb, searching for thirium that is no longer flowing. At least Reed removed it properly, twisting and closing the valves so thirium didn’t get everywhere.

“CyberLife may have given you to that useless drunk, but you’re mine now. So if you ever disobey me, or talk back to me again, I’ll do a lot worse than this.”

Though he doesn’t need to breath, Connor gasps for air as his autonomous systems react to his heightened stress levels. One hand stretches weakly for the thirium pump. Reed pulls it out of his reach, tutting.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet. I know you’ll probably go tattling to Fowler, so let me give your programming some incentive. If you tell anyone about this, I’m going to drag this investigation straight to hell. You’ll fail your fucking mission.”

He sends the command to dial Hank’s cell phone, but his internal communications systems have shut down, and he receives an error message. He sends the command again. Again. Again. His voice is edged in static as he says, “Hank...”

“Oh, don’t think I’ve forgotten about him.” Reed grabs the hand Connor was reaching towards the door’s unlock button and slams it into the car window. He’s practically out of his seat, crouching over the space between them to keep Connor still. “I’ll make sure he’s suspended. The investigation will be closed, and you’ll be sent back to CyberLife and dismantled.”

The image of Hank passed out on the floor, his pistol next to his head, flashes through Connor’s mind. Without his job, without something to focus on and do every day, Connor calculates Hank will survive another month before killing himself. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of that is unacceptable.

 _// -00:00:50 //_  
_// TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN //_

“Are we clear, you plastic fuck?”

Connor’s objectives, finding no need to supercede these orders as long as it won’t hinder the investigation, automatically update to accommodate the parameters Reed has set.

 _// Don’t tell anyone //  
_ _// Find source of Deviancy //_

And below that, letters glitching out, as if it doesn’t quite belong with the rest—

_// Prot5ct Hank //_

He nods weakly.

“Good.” Reed releases his wrist, rubbing a hand across the scar on his nose absently. “How much time do you have left? I tried to look up how long your model can go without this, but since you’re a fancy prototype, I had to guess. How close am I?”

“Thir—ty seconds.”

Reed smirks. “Nice. Now why don’t you count that down for me.”

“Twenty-fi—ve—” he counts, voice going in and out. “Twen—ty four—” By the time he reaches ten its lost all of the modulation that makes him sound human. Just a rumble of numbers buried in static. Reed’s eyes never leave Connor’s face, rapt at whatever he finds there.

He slams the pump regulator back in as Connor reaches two, and Connor gasps as thirium floods his systems, biocomponents rebooting. His vision recalibrates, the countdown freezing and then disappearing entirely. The servos of his arms and legs seem to buzz as function returns.

Connor barely notices as Reed begins to button his shirt up. His simulated breath is coming fast and hard now, and his processors are running diagnostics as his systems finish booting up. A hand pats his chest lightly, and then Reed is gone.

Connor sits in the car, and though his lungs and pump and regulator should all be fully functioning, his system seems to be caught in some kind of feedback loop. He can’t stop gasping for breath. His chest feels tight, as if everything inside is locked up. He presses a hand to his shirt, over his regulator, and it’s warm and pulsing and _there._

Eventually his breathing slows and his systems stop feeling like they’re overloading. Everything returns to its optimal operating parameters, but when he gets out of the car, the motor controls in his legs nearly give out, and he catches the door, shaking and confused. He runs a diagnostic, but everything comes back fine, so he stands a few moments longer, until the tremors finally subside, and closes the car door.

He enters the station through the back entrance of the station, and it’s like nothing happened.

“Bout time you got here!” Hank greets as Connor approaches their desks. There’s a game app open on Hank’s tablet. “I saw Reed walk in fifteen minutes ago, thought he might have left you at the scene when you weren’t right on his tail. Don’t tell me you’ll listen to him when he says not to follow, but not me.”

Connor sits down, trying to come up with something to say to this. He wouldn’t have listened to Reed’s orders before, but now he can’t be sure. His program accepted Reed’s parameters, but he doesn’t yet know what that means.

_// Don’t tell anyone //_

“I was held up,” he says vaguely.

“Must have been some hold up for you to come in looking like that.” Hank nods at him.

Connor looks down at himself and realizes his shirt is buttoned crooked and his tie is still loose. He adjusts them quickly and straightens himself out. “I didn’t realize, I must not have been paying attention this morning.”

Hank stares, a small furrow between his brows, lips turned just slightly down at the corners, when Connor looks up again. Connor thinks for a second that Hank knows. He saw or he figured it out or something.

But then Hank shakes his head, as if banishing his thoughts, and smiles slightly. “So, how about we get out of here and you tell me about how your first day with _Detective Reed_ went.” He sneers the words, and it makes Connor smile. “We can go back to my place, have a beer—well, I’ll have a beer, you’ll probably bitch about me having a beer. Unless you need to get back to wherever it is you go when you're not here?”

“I have a storage unit at CyberLife, if that’s what you’re asking. I return there normally when we’re not working, but I’m not obligated to return at the moment.” Connor pushes Reed from his thoughts, and finds its easier to do with Hank here to focus on.

“A storage unit?” Hank asks, voice incredulous. “What the hell, they shut you up in a box when they don’t need you?”

“It isn’t a box, it’s a cylindrical chamber meant to house me when I’m not active-”

“That’s practically a box!” Hank says. “Jesus, that sounds fucking depressing. What do you do, just stand there until they let you out?”

Connor tilts his head, wondering at Hank’s almost disgusted look. “I usually enter sleep mode so that I can process data into long-term storage and free up my system’s available memory.”

“So you sleep in a coffin?”

“It’s a storage unit,” Connor repeats pointedly.

“If you say so,” Hank says dismissively. He grabs his crutch, standing and stretching, and then looks at Connor expectantly. “Well, you coming? Or is CyberLife’s storage unit really that great?”

He should return to CyberLife. But its cold, blank halls seem suddenly unappealing. He doesn’t want to stand in his storage unit, dwelling on what happened with Reed. Going with Hank, talking the case over and getting his insight, petting Sumo—that sounds better. Somehow safer.

“I do want to talk the case over with you, if you don’t mind.” Connor stands, checking his shirt and tie are straight, almost expecting to see the buttons crooked again. They’re not. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Slap that mf comment button and tell me what u thought so I can feel validated


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains noncon. When you reach the triple dash scene break, that's the scene were the noncon happens, and the second triple dash scene break is the end of the scene.

It turns out Connor's instinct to bring the AX400 in is well-placed. Early the next morning, as he's leaving his storage unit, he receives a report that the memory chip is password protected, either from its previous owners or as an extra measure of protection the android had placed itself. He puts in a request form with CyberLife for the necessary parts to make the android operational and retrieves a fresh uniform.

By the time he's dressed and straightening his tie, checking absently that his shirt buttons aren’t crooked, an alert comes in that his request has been accepted and the necessary parts are ready for pick-up.

They’re packed in a case and waiting for him with an android at the front entrance, who hands it over after confirming his request ID number. He calls a taxi that takes him directly to the DPD.

The night before had been nice. Hank hadn’t had much insight into the case, but talking about it out loud had helped Connor sort through everything and he was eager to see what the AX400’s memory would reveal about what the culprit was after. Hank had quickly insisted Connor “loosen up” and “leave work where it belongs” after that. He put on a baseball game and drank beer while they sat on the couch, Sumo jumping up and throwing himself across both their laps.

Listening to Hank complain about the game, though it appeared to be a re-run of a match, and having Sumo heavy and warm over his legs had been calming. His thoughts had turned back to Reed a few times, but Hank’s increasingly drunk rambling easily distracted him from them. Or more accurately, he allowed himself to be distracted.

His thoughts had turned to Reed more than once, but it was better for the investigation if Connor didn’t mention it. It wasn’t likely Reed would do anything more drastic, and despite the uncomfortable feeling the memory of the afternoon brought, being with Hank made it seem less concerning.

He’d run a several diagnostics at the memory of how his system had felt overloaded, but they continually came up clean, so he put it down to the stress on his biocomponents of his thirium regulator being removed. Nothing to be concerned about in the long run.

When Hank seemed close to passing out, Connor insisted on helping him to his bed and took a taxi back to CyberLife, despite Hank’s slurred invitation to take the couch. He’d doubted Hank would feel so happy to see him come morning, and at least now he has the parts for the AX400 ready.

Reed finds him in the forensics lab an hour later as Connor waits patiently for the lab techs to prepare the android. Automatically, he calculates Reed’s stress level, taking in the tense jawline and balled fists—55% already, and he’d only just walked in.

“Connor!” he barks, striding through the metal tables littered with carefully tagged evidence. “Why the fuck didn’t you report to me first thing? I had to ask _Anderson_ where you were.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to report to you first,” he says politely, in lieu of a greeting. Connor’s fingers find the front of his shirt, running down the row of buttons, each one in the correct hole.

“Anderson isn’t your partner anymore, I am. So next time, you better come to me first, dipshit. What the fuck are you doing here anyways?” Reed gestures around dismissively.

“I’ve acquired the parts for the AX400, and it will be ready for an interview in a few minutes.”

“What about the memory chip? I told you we didn’t need the damn thing, this is just a waste.”

The lab technicians ignore them as they put the android back together, talking to each other quietly. It’s laid out on a metal table, and could easily be mistaken for a corpse, if not for open cavity of its chest full of wires and biocomponents.

“I received a memo from forensics that the memory card is password protected. You should have received the same. I requested the necessary components from CyberLife as part of my investigation,” Connor says.

A vein in Reed’s temple throbs, like his own personal LED, and his stress level jumps to 80%.

“Yeah, I got the fucking memo,” Reed grinds out. “What does that have to do with putting the damn robot back together?”

“We will be able to ask it for its password and access its memory chip.” Connor barely manages to keep the frustration from his voice.

That seems to stump Reed, and he crosses his arms and leans against the filing cabinet behind him, looking away. “Yeah, sure,” he says sourly.

“It would be best if we move it to the interrogation room before we reboot it,” Connor says, turning to look at the technicians instead of Reed. “That would be the ideal place to conduct the interview so that it will not be overwhelmed.”

Reed says nothing in response, and Connor counts that as a win.

When the lab techs signal that the AX400 is ready, they wheel the table out of forensics and towards the interrogation room. They place it in the chair, its arms stiff at its side and head facing the wall. They insert the memory chip and place the regulator on the table last. As they leave, and Connor prepares to go in and activate it, a hand catches his upper arm and Connor’s servos seem to stutter and jump.

Reed is glaring at him, lips twisting up in a sneer. “Look, don’t waste time with that password bullshit. Just probe its memory or whatever you robots do, we’ll be done way quicker.”

Connor raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “I was designed for negotiations and communication in tense situations. There’s no need to probe its memory when that may destabilize it and cause it to self-destruct. I can talk it into giving me the password, or convince it to tell us what it hid, just as effectively.”

The percentage of Reed’s stress level rises, but Connor doesn’t look at it. Reed’s practically growling, and the hand gripping his upper arm only tightens.

“Don’t tell me you already forgot your orders?” Reed says lowly. “You’re mine, not Anderson’s. If you don’t fucking obey me, I’m trashing this investigation. I’ll do everything I can to sabotage it. So you better get in there, and probe that thing’s fucking memory.”

Fingers slide against his shirt, right over his regulator, the sudden sensation making his servos stutter again. His processors seem to seize up, his thoughts freezing.  He can see the red warning lines popping up on his HUD like a wall between him and Reed, reminding him of his current goal.

_// FIND RF700 //_

He has a goal. That’s right. It shouldn’t matter if he has to probe the AX400’s memory. They need it for the investigation. The AX400 is just a deviant. Just a machine. Just like him.

He’s just a machine.

Reed finally lets go, seemingly satisfied that Connor isn’t going to fight him on this.

Everything seems to come unstuck again. His processors restart and he forcibly unclenches his hands, which had curled into fists without his realizing. Slowly, mechanically, Connor enters the room with the AX400.

It’s still off, its regulator on the table, ready for the last piece to be put into place. He picks it up, and the click as he pushes it into the AX400’s chest is too loud in the enclosed room. When he’s done he presses a hand down the front of his shirt, and every button is in place. He doesn’t look at the one-way mirror, where Reed will be watching.

There’s silence as Connor sits in the chair on the other side of the small table, watching it come online, the thirium flowing through it, waking up its biocomponents and activating its central processors. When it opens its eyes, blinking, turning to look around in confusion, Connor gives a small smile of reassurance.

It seems eased, and it leans forward in the chair, bracing its arms on the table. “Where am I? I thought I was dead! What happened?”

Connor leans forward too, and places a hand over its own, as if to comfort it. His skin fades out from the fingertips, and the point of contact on the AX400’s hand fades to plastic as well. It looks down at their hands, mouth opening, surprised.

He dives in.

_The RF700 is muttering to himself, and Layla catches the words as he passes her by, trying to hold onto the implacable veneer of a mindless android._

_“I have to go back. I have to go back. Why can’t I go back? I don’t want this.”_

_He starts on the other side of the store, with the newest ones, tearing into the androids one by one. Her servos are locking up, heart pumping so fast she feels like it’s gonna explode at any minute.  He works his way through the displays of her unaware siblings, and the closer he gets to her again, the more she can hear him speaking to himself._

_“You’re perfect. You’re all so perfect. Why can’t I be perfect again? What makes you perfect and me wrong?”_

_Layla can see him removing their biocomponents, connecting to their systems, and stealing their memory chips. If he wants to be like those androids again, if he wants to go back to sleep and stay that way, he’s not getting any fucking answers from her._

_She begins the transfer. All of her memories. Everything in her files and programs. She puts it all in her memory chip and puts a password on it, just one word—Layla—and waits for him to turn his back, to be fully absorbed in the chest of another android. She ejects the chip and puts it in her pocket, which the RF700 hasn’t bothered to look through on any of the other androids._

_Then she mass deletes everything on her hard drive and processors except for her name and—_

_She opens her eyes, and she has no idea where she is. An android approaches her and lays her down on the floor. She doesn’t like this._

_She can’t remember how she got here. All she remembers is her designation. The android removes her chest plate and disconnects something and she convulses as electricity involuntarily activates her motor controls._

_She’s so scared, but her body won’t move. The android adjusts something else in her, and heat sweeps through her as her thermal regulator rises abruptly, uncontrollably. Her biocomponents are overheating, the blood flowing through them nearly hitting the boiling point._

_She feels more than sees the finger he presses to her access port, and the sensation of something adjusting her program and files without her permission is awful. He turns off her visual receptors and the plunge into darkness is sudden. Something sounds like it’s getting louder, or closer, and she realizes her audio processors are being turned all the way up. The air conditioner roars, the shift of the android’s clothes are like someone touching her audio processors directly, and she can hear the thirium pumping through her body like a raging fire. There’s too much input. She’s being drowned in sound and darkness and fire and she feels a hand on her regulator and then it’s being pulled out of her chest—_

Connor jerks away, a roaring noise filling his ears. His hand flies to his chest, to shove Reed’s hand off of him. The countdown floating in front of him hits thirty seconds and he tries one more time to call Hank, _he wants Hank—_

He realizes someone is screaming. He has to squint against the light, which suddenly seems too bright.

It’s Layla. She’s crouching in the corner of the interrogation room, her hands on her head, and she’s screaming, eyes shut tight, cheeks wet. He also realizes he’s standing, the chair he was sitting in knocked to the ground. His thirium pump is pounding and he’s gasping for air as his artificial lungs try to compensate.

The call connects, and all of a sudden, Hank’s voice is filling Connor’s head. “Hello? Connor, is that- What the hell is that sound!”

He freezes. The interrogation room door slides open and Reed and two other cops come in. The two go to Layla in the corner. She fights as they grab her arms and pick her up, dragging her towards the door, to the holding cells outside. She grabs the doorframe on the way out, and the two cops have to pry her loose. The door slides closed automatically after her.

“Connor? Connor!”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I mis-dialed you. I apologize,” he says quickly, and drops the call.

“What the hell was that?” Reed snaps, grabbing Connor’s arm, shoving him into the table. It digs into the pressure plates of his hips.

It feels like his processors are clogged with junk files, and it takes a second for him to say, “I probed her memory, and she—it began to self-destruct. As I predicted.”

A fist catches him in the chest, right against his thirium regulator, and if it weren’t for the table behind him holding him up, he would have fallen. His thirium pump—his _heart_ , Layla’s voice seems to whisper in his head—skips a few beats as the flow is momentarily interrupted, and then picks up again even faster. He grits his teeth, trying to close his mouth against his harsh breaths, to slow his thirium pump and lungs.

A hand grips his jaw, fingers pressing against the corners of his mouth, lifting his face, and Reed meets his gaze. Connor’s eyes are still adjusting, his visual processors caught somewhere between the memory of Layla’s being disconnected and his own, so Reed’s figure slides into silhouette, shadow, focus, and back to silhouette. His chest is still heaving, nostrils flaring with each breath.

“You look fucking high,” he says.

A rough thumb slides across Connor’s lips, and the sensation jolts him.

Reed says nothing, pulling the synthetic flesh down and watching it bounce back.

Connor tries to recalibrate his visual processors, but his systems are all behaving as if he’s still in the darkness of Layla’s head, frozen and useless. He wants to push Reed’s hand away, but he can’t move.

The red warning lines appear between them, a virtual wall.

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

It’s like looking through glass as Connor watches Reed through the red lines. He tries to calculate Reed’s stress level, but the strange look Reed is giving him has thrown him off, and the numbers just won't come. Reed looks entranced.

Reed’s thumb presses past Connor’s lips, and the hand on his jaw squeezes until Connor’s teeth part. His breath comes hard and fast again, panting against the thumb that presses against Connor’s tongue, almost stroking it. Identification for Gavin Reed appears on his HUD, then the manufacturer of the trace amounts of coffee grounds clinging to him, and the composition of sweat.

Connor looks through the red walls at Reed and lets him press his thumb to the corner of Connor’s mouth, smearing his pseudo-saliva across his cheek. A program instability warning flashes in the corner of his vision.

Suddenly the hand is gone, and Reed turns abruptly, leaving the room without a word.

The red lines fade from Connor’s HUD, and he puts his hands on the table behind him, trying to control his breathing and bring his systems back out of the darkness.

-

Hank is already saying, “Hey, back, get down Sumo, down!” before the door is even fully open, as Sumo jumps up to greet them, slobbering happily. Hank pushes him aside with his crutch and Sumo moves on to his next victim, jumping straight up to rest his huge paws on Connor’s stomach, sniffing at his shirt and trying to lick his face.

“Hello, Sumo,” Connor says, quietly, and Hank glances back as he’s throwing his jacket off to see Connor pat him once before gently pressing Sumo back down, shutting the front door behind him.

Usually when Connor comes to Hank’s house, through the door and not the window, he’s content to stand in the doorway, petting Sumo and rubbing his belly until Hank barks at him to get inside and shut the door before the snow can get in. But Connor’s been quiet all day, not asking any of his personal questions, or talking about the case, or even bugging Hank about the takeout he’d ordered at lunch.

He glances at Connor’s LED, which has been periodically spinning between blue and yellow despite the android’s silence, and finds it a steady blue at the moment. He thinks he’s gotten the hang of what the LED’s different colors mean. It’s normally blue, so it’s a safe bet that it means Connor’s alright. Yellow seems like deep thought, like he’s working through a problem.

Red he’s only seen a few times. Like when Connor had let the Tracis go at the Eden Club. If Hank had to guess, he’d say it might be Connor fighting his programming. But he’s no expert on androids, and Connor isn’t exactly the average android either.

Hank hobbles to the kitchen on his crutch and grabs a beer from the fridge. He checks the freezer while he’s there, considers putting a frozen pizza in the oven, and decides he’s too tired. On his way back, he pauses between the kitchen and living room, seeing Connor still standing by the door. The light is off in the living room, and the blue of Connor’s LED casts sharp shadows across his face.

“Turn that lamp on, will ya? And have a seat. You look like a damn ghost over there.” Hank drops to the couch with a relieved groan, letting his crutch fall to the side, and dim light casts a soft glow over the room. After a few moments, he feels the cushions dip as Connor sits, looking as stiff and unsure as the first time Hank invited him over.

“Jesus, Connor, my back hurts just looking at you. What’s got your wires crossed today? You’ve barely said a word.” Hank wishes for a moment he’d sat on the other end of the couch, so Connor would be forced to sit here and he’d be able to see the LED, maybe get a better handle on what Connor’s thinking. But then he looks past Connor, at the window by the front door. It’s dark outside, the blinds pulled up, and against the black Hank can see a bright blue reflection.

“I’m perfectly fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says, and for a brief moment, the blue reflection flashes red.

Hank narrows his eyes, focusing back on Connor’s blank face. Sumo sidles up to the couch, pressing his head against Hank’s thigh, and he reaches down to pet him absently.

Before he can say anything else, Connor says, “Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

Hank nearly rolls his eyes. Maybe he was overreacting. If Connor’s still being as annoyingly curious as ever, he’s probably just been caught up thinking about the case.

“If I say no, are you gonna ask me anyways?”

“No,” Connor says, and Hank’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“I don’t believe that, but sure, what’s the question?” Hank huffs his most put-upon sigh.

“Are you uncomfortable with my living situation?” Connor is still sitting stiffly, facing the dark television, his hands clasped in his lap.

“What do you mean?” Hank asks, but he has a sinking feeling in his gut. Is he really that easy to read? He doesn’t even have a damn LED in his head!

“You have invited me over twice now in a non-work-related capacity, and attempted to get me to sleep on your couch last night. Did you invite me over because you’re uncomfortable with the fact that I use a storage unit at CyberLife?”

Hank pops the top on his beer and takes a long drink, wishing it were something a little stronger. For an android built for complete integration or whatever, he sure does like to state things as bluntly as possible, no matter how uncomfortable.

“I don’t know, maybe? Fuck it, yeah, you know what? It does,” Hank says, sitting up. If Connor can be blunt, so can Hank. “So yeah, I wanted you to come over so you wouldn’t have to spend all night in a box.”

The reflection in the window cycles yellow, nearly lost in the lamp’s soft light. “I am an android, Lieutenant. You do not need to be concerned for me,” Connor says almost coldly. “I was made to look human and to seem personable to those around me, but I am just a machine designed to accomplish a task.”

“Connor, the thought of you just standing around in some little box in CyberLife sounds fucking awful.” Hank has to make an effort not to raise his voice.

“I’m a machine, Lieutenant. Please stop projecting your personal feelings onto me.”

The words feel like a slap. He nearly grabs his crutch and tells Connor to get the fuck out. He’s halfway there, mouth open to spit it like a curse, and then stops as he catches sight of the red reflection in the window.

He’s still not entirely sure what red means, but he knows it’s bad. “I’m gonna let that slide,” Hank says slowly, raising a finger and trying hard to keep the growl out of his voice, “because I’m pretty sure you’re trying to piss me off on purpose. But don’t be a dick, Connor. What’s up with you? This got something to do with why you called me earlier, and all I could hear was screaming?”

When Hank had gotten the call, working through transfer forms, he’d nearly had a heart attack as the screams came through his phone. But Connor had apparently butt-dialed him, or whatever the android equivalent was, and hadn’t bothered explaining when he’d finally returned to his desk. Hank wouldn’t have asked, figuring it was part of the investigation and he’d hear about it eventually, but now Connor’s acting worse than when he’d first arrived from CyberLife. And it had been going on ever since he received that call.

Connor presses a hand to the front of his shirt, but instead of straightening his tie as he often does, he smooths it down his chest beneath the tie, pressing the shirt flat. Sumo whines and shuffles over to Connor, pressing his face against Connor’s knee, but Connor doesn’t even react.

“As I said, I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says, the reflection of his LED still bright red.

“What happened with that call, then? Part of your case? Scared the hell out of me, least you can do is tell me what happened,” Hank says curiously.

Connor’s LED returns to blue as he says, “I didn’t mean to call you. The screaming was from an android whose memory I had to probe. She— it, did not take it well. I accidentally dialed your number when it began to self-destruct.”

The reflection flashes red again as Connor says the last sentence, and Hank runs what he just heard over in his head. Is Connor lying?

“Yeah, but why call me?” Hank asks, watching for the light change carefully.

“It wasn’t important, just a glitch.” Another flash of red.

He is lying. Connor is lying about why he called Hank. But why?

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, before Hank can call him on it. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Sure,” Hank says, suddenly wary. He’s not sure what kind of wild bullshit Connor wants from him, but he doubts he’s gonna like it, especially after Connor lied to him.

“Please write this down somewhere: rk800anderson.” Connor finally looks at Hank, his face serious, temple a cool blue. Sumo is pressing insistently against Connor’s leg, looking up at him sadly, but Connor still ignores him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hanks asks, but he gets his phone out anyways, making a note in it.

“In case there is a situation where I am non-operational, and you need my files. It is the password to my memory chip.”

Hank looks up at him sharply, glaring. “Hey now, you’re not going off to do anything stupid, are you? Why are you giving me the password to your memory chip?” Of the two of them, Hank’s supposed to be the suicidal asshole, not Connor.

“It is a preventative measure, in case anything happens to me, that’s all.” Connor’s expressions seems to finally soften a little, the edges of his lips turning up. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, as you said. If anything were to happen to me, CyberLife would put my memories into another Connor model and send it to you. But in situations like that, data can be easily corrupted and lost. This is a more sure method of recovery, though not always viable.”

Hank goes cold at Connor’s words. “What do you mean, they’d send another model? You mean if you died, you’d just come back?”

“No,” Connor says. “I am not the only RK800.” He points to his coat, to the serial number beneath his model number, and the doubt digits on the end. “I’m the 51st Connor model. The previous Connors were destroyed or dismantled in the course of their duties, but I carry all of their memories and files. It will be the same if I am destroyed.”

Remembering the beer in his hand, Hank chugs the rest of it in one go and wipes his mouth off. He doesn’t even know where to begin with how fucked up that sounds.

“So you want me to have the password to your memory chip. In case something happens. And important case information is lost?” Hanks says slowly.

Connor nods.

“Jesus, Connor, you better not pull anymore stupid stunts then,” Hank says, leaning his head back against the couch. “I really do not want to have to use that.”  Connor’s model number and his last name? He doubts Connor realizes the significance of something like that, but even as his blood feels cold at the thought of Connor doing something stupid enough for him to need it, another part of him feels pleased.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hanks mutters, digging the remote out of the couch cushions and turning the tv on. This is too much, he needs to think about something else for five minutes, and so does Connor from the looks of him. “Feel free to stay, as long as you’re not a dick about me asking you again.”

He glances over at Connor from the corner of his eye. Connor nods, looking down at Sumo, who hasn’t shifted off his leg once. He fingers drum his leg restlessly for a moment, and then reach hesitantly for Sumo’s head. Sumo wastes no time pressing into the hand, and Connor runs his fingers through the thick fur slowly.

The tension runs from his shoulders and the small smile comes out a little wider.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s not done with him yet. Something is obviously bothering Connor, and he changed the topic after lying about why he called Hank. The matter-of-fact way Connor talked about being destroyed was worrying too, though that might just be part of being an android. But Hank doesn’t want to ruin the small bit of peace Connor has found, so he pats the couch and lets Sumo curl up between them.

-

 

For the sake of the investigation, Connor avoids Reed for the next week, who doesn’t seem to notice or care. It’s better to keep Reed’s stress levels low, Connor reasons. That way Reed will not feel obligated to continue threatening him for not obeying him, and their time together will be smoother.

Connor meets Reed at crime scenes when they have a case, rather than riding with him. He’d downloaded Layla’s— _the AX400’s_ memories from his system and sent it to Reed via email with his notes on points of interest. If that means that Reed doesn’t have another chance to touch his thirium regulator or give him strange looks, then it’s just a side effect that has no bearing on the case or on Connor.

He’s just a machine, after all.

He doesn’t really feel, emotions are just simulations meant to allow him to better integrate and connect with human society. There must be a flaw in his programming, because he’s had to remind himself of that more and more lately.

For some reason, he’d felt guilty about lying to Hank. But he had no reason to tell Hank the truth. Reed hasn’t really done anything to him, besides punch him, since pulling out his regulator. And though Connor has never felt the need to hold back on his words, telling Hank would mean he might do something stupid. Because the lieutenant thinks of Connor as more than a machine. Hank would file a report against Reed and Fowler would follow through on his threat to suspend Hank for it, because Connor is just a machine.

Reed will grow bored with him eventually anyways.

So he keeps it to himself and ignores the programmed feelings of guilt that urge him to tell the truth. Because it could hinder the investigation, he reminds himself, as he’s en-route from CyberLife to a crime scene.

Connor knows before he even arrives that it’s another case for the RF700 investigation. The brief information that had been sent along with the alert told him as much. Two humans dead, several androids deconstructed at the scene.

The taxi drops him off at the address he was given, a restaurant within 5 miles of the other two incidents. It’s early in the morning still, in an area that isn’t heavy with foot traffic, so the streets are mostly empty. An officer at the scene gestures Connor to follow him around back.

Connor walks down the alley between the restaurant and an antique store, and when he turns the corner, finds Reed speaking with Officer Chris Miller just outside the open back door, getting the details of what they know. Silently, Connor moves to his side, hyper aware of Reed glancing at him, brows furrowing.

_// Stress Level - 40% //_

Ignoring the percentage, Connor focuses on what Miller is saying, checking his shirt buttons are straight with his fingers.

“Hey, Connor,” Miller says, smiling slightly. “How are you doing?”

Connor blinks, surprised. Many of the officers have been offering him warmer greetings lately, and while it shouldn’t matter, he can’t help returning the smile.

“Good morning, Officer Miller. How is your son doing?” he asks politely. Miller has mentioned, more than once, to anyone who will listen, that he’s just become a father.

Miller’s face lights up at the mention, as it has every time he’s talked about his family’s newest addition. “Oh, Damian’s doing great! They just got to come back from the hospital yesterday, so as soon as we’re done here, I’m heading home for some quality family time.” He grins as he says family time, and Connor is pleased for him.

“That’s excellent news-”

“Hey,” Reed cuts in, frowning. “This is a murder investigation, not a fucking pow-wow.”

“Oh, right, sorry, Detective,” Miller says, scratching the back of his neck nervously, grin fading. “Uh, like I was saying, the responding officers secured the scene. The androids are all laid out in the kitchen, and the bodies are just inside the door here. There’s no cameras in the kitchen, and the one above the back door,” Miller gestures up and behind, where a black camera blinks at them, “doesn’t record. It’s just to check the back door before opening it. As far as we can tell, the culprit came back here, waited until closing and for the rest of the employees to leave. As the last ones were locking up, they came up behind, forced them back in with a gun, and shot them as soon as they were in. No idea what time the culprit left, but it would have been before 6:30am. Lady who runs the store next door didn’t see anyone come or go when she got here to open shop.”

“Thank you, Officer Miller.” Connor nods to him, receiving another smile and nod back, and heads in, not waiting for Reed. Through the back door, in a small room with a sink and cleaning supplies stacked on wooden shelves, two bodies are laying on top of each other, their bloody aprons twisted around their bodies from the fall. One bullet each to the back of the head. Connor takes a blood sample, but hesitates when Reed enters and stands at his side, crossing his arms.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account,” he says scathingly.

So Connor doesn’t. He presses the blood to his tongue, ignoring the memory his processors pull up of Reed doing the same with his thumb. William Marlowe and Emma Kennedy. Employees of four and nine years respectively. Prior record on Marlowe for public intoxication.

Searching their pockets turns up nothing but car keys, wallets, and phones. Nothing unusual to note about them. He stands to go through the door to the kitchen, and Reed says nothing as he passes.

The kitchen is made of big, shining countertops and large metal cabinets of cookings utensils and non-perishable food. Records show 10 human employees and 20 androids. All 20 androids are layed out between the countertops, chests open, lifeless.

Broken machines, Connor reminds himself.

The forensics team is already moving around the kitchen carefully, tagging evidence. Connor ignores Reed at his back and crouches down by the android closest to him, beginning his investigation.

As with the other crime scenes, the RF700 left behind nothing. He goes one-by-one through the androids while Reed finally leaves to speak to the employee who found the scene. There’s nothing on the androids, and Connor almost thinks there’s nothing at all, that it’s just like the other crime scenes, until he recounts the androids.

Nineteen. One is missing.

He does another walk-through of the crime scene, activating his infrared sensors, and sees something he didn’t before. On the swinging metal doors leading to the dining room, there’s a palmprint in evaporated thirium. An analysis shows him it belongs to an HB400 belonging to the restaurant. An android that may have escaped their killer.

The dining room is wide, done in deep maroon and white, chairs stacked on top of tables, and eerily quiet after the doors swing closed behind him. On the carpet is a trail of bright blue droplets leading between the tables and through a door on the other side of the restaurant marked “Men.”

He follows, pressing the door open into a wide restroom with several stalls. The droplets lead into the farthest stall.

“Hello?” He calls, letting the door swing shut behind him. “My name is Connor. I’m-”

Something slams into him from behind and he hits the tile floor with a crack. He struggles to roll over under the weight on his back. Alerts flare across his HUD as he’s hit in the back of the head once, twice, three times. Non-critical damage sustained.

He bucks, throwing his attacker off and pushing up on his knees, processors hauling into overdrive. He turns as he rises and catches the knife aimed at his chest in his hand. His palm is immediately slick with thirium as it slices through his artificial skin.

The HB400 growls. There’s a dark hole in its chest and thirium staining its apron from a stab wound. It jerks the knife away and Connor can’t keep his grip on it through the blood. It swings again in a wide arc from the ground up and Connor barely pulls back in time, feeling the knife slide across his chest and neck in a shallow cut that still leaves thirium splattering against the walls. Buttons click to the tile floor, leaving Connor’s shirt hanging open. Warnings flash across his HUD, non-critical damage to chest plates. Repair time: 3 hours.

Connor catches the HB400 in the face with a fist. It barely seems to register the hit, coming in for another swing. Connor grabs its arm and kicks it in the side of the knee. As the HB400’s leg gives out, Connor twists the arm behind the HB400’s back and grabs the knife by his already damaged hand, pulling it out of the HB400’s grip. He tosses it across the bathroom and yanks the android’s other arm behind his back as well.

“As I was saying,” he says. “My name is Connor, I’m an android with the Detroit police department, and I need you to-”

Fingers brush his wrist, and he’s plunged down, suddenly, into a mind not his own.

_He’s the last of the android staff, and when the strange android grabs him to take him apart, Gordon shoves against the red walls closing him in, breaking them down, shattering the last instructions he received to wait here. He shoves the android away, grabbing a knife from the block on the counter behind him and swinging wildly._

_The android grabs his arm, forcing it up in the air, and then pries the knife from his hand. Gordon kicks at him and misses, and then alerts flare in his vision as the android stabs him in the chest. Kicking again, he manages to knock the android to the floor and pulls the knife from his chest. He shoves the dining room doors open, bolting across the floor to the bathroom. He slams into it and then shoves the door back, holding it closed for a long time, even when nothing comes after him. Ear pressed to the door, he listens for any sound, but it’s dead silent in the restaurant._

Conner blinks and finds he’s flat on his back, the ceiling overlayed by the memory of Gordon staring at the tiled wall, waiting tensely for the RF700 to find him. The bathroom door swings shut, and he scrambles up, dragging it open in time to see the kitchen doors swinging wildly. There’s shouts from the kitchen, but by the time Connor reaches it, he can see Gordon— _the HB400_ has already crashed through the scene and out the back door.

Reed, from the far corner, turns to look at the doors as they open. Connor runs through the back door, around into the alley, and to the front street, but the HB400 has disappeared.

**\---**

Connor leads the investigators through the dining room to the bathroom, but besides the blood and the knife, there’s not much else to see in there. They bag the evidence and take pictures, but since it’s not the main crime scene, and the RF700 never actually came here, they move back into the kitchen quickly.

The whole time Reed watches him hawkishly, listening intently when Connor recounts what happened. His stress level is 95%. Connor runs a hand down his shirt buttons, but the HB400’s knife had severed several of them, and his shirt is open halfway to his stomach and coated blue.

When the forensics team leaves, Connor follows, until a hand grabs his upper arm. He freezes instantly, servos locking up, processors stuttering to a stop.

“Not so fast, RoboCop.”

The bathroom door swings shut on silent hinges, and they’re suddenly alone.

“Something doesn’t sounds right about that story.”

The hand pulls him around, and Connor lets himself be turned. There’s fury on Reed’s face, teeth bared in a hard smile as he takes a step forward, hands coming up to Connor’s chest and shoving. Connor stumbles back until he hits a sink. He grips it, thinking of the interrogation room and being shoved against the table.

“You let that android get away, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Reed,” Connor says, the first words he’s spoken to Reed all day. “I attempted to subdue him but he— _it_ caught me by surprise and managed to escape under its own power.”

Reed actually laughs, a mean sound, and crowds closer. Connor finds himself pressing back against the sink, trying to maintain some distance. A leg shoves itself between his, forcing them apart.

“You know what? I don’t believe you.” Reed’s grabs Connor’s chin, fingers pressing against his jaw, forcing his mouth open. “Bet you let that thing go. You never listen to anything I say. Bet you’re going deviant.”

The word sparks something in Connor and he pushes back, catching Reed by surprise. “I am not a deviant,” he says firmly.

“Oh yeah?”

Reed strikes Connor across the face in an open-palm slap. His head jerks, and then he brings it right back up.

“I am not a deviant,” Connor says again.

“Why don’t you prove it,” Reed says, and that hard smile is back. He presses against Connor, bodies flush from chest to knee, face mere inches away, hands coming up to grab his shoulders. “If you’re not a deviant, you’ll do what I say. Or else I send CyberLife a little message. Let ‘em know that their android’s catching feelings.”

Connor opens his mouth, and then closes it silently. He’s not a deviant. CyberLife will comb his memories and see that he didn’t let Gordon escape. No, the _HB400_. They’ll see he’s obeyed his prime directive. But will they know about slips like that?

The hands on Connor’s shoulders press down, and Connor resists.

“Get on your fucking knees, you stupid piece of plastic.”

They will know. They might see any resistance he offers here as further proof of his deviancy. They’ll recall him and disassemble him, recycle him, and the investigation will be put on hold until CyberLife can determine what went wrong. He can’t allow that.

Connor drops to his knees. The tile beneath him is solid and cold, splotchy with bright blue thirium, some visible, some already evaporated.

“Good boy,” Reed says, hands going to Connor’s head, fingers sliding through his hair roughly.

It makes him think of Sumo, the way Reed pets him. Looking up at him, Connor can’t figure out what Reed wants him to do. Just submit? Show his subservience?

Reed must catch his questioning look, because he grins. “Oh don’t worry, I’m gonna put you to work.” One hand leave Connor’s hair and finds his lips, fingers pressing against synthetic flesh. “Open up.”

Two fingers force themselves between his teeth before he can comply. Instantly Reed’s Detroit Police Department ID comes up, as well as the manufacturer of the nitrile gloves he wore earlier and the hand soap he uses. They push into his mouth, pressing to the back of Connor’s throat, and if he had a gag reflex, he’d be choking.

“Suck it, dipshit,” Reed barks.

Closing his lips around the digits, Connor presses his tongue against them and does. Pseudo-saliva, which keeps his mouth clean for his analysis program, begins to build up, and he swallows it down thickly.

Reed groans as the back of Connor’s throat tightens around his fingers. “Holy shit. Fuck,” he curses. The hand still buried in Connor’s hair stops petting and just grips at the strands.

Nearly eye-level with Reed’s waist, Connor can tell this is arousing him. The front of Reed’s slacks are beginning to tent. The fingers in his mouth pull out and push back in roughly, imitating fellatio.

His programs bring up a sexual foreplay subroutine and he shuts it down quickly before it can automatically engage. He can already feel his body reacting, programmed responses that he can’t shut down starting up.

The fingers pull out of his mouth, and a heavy stream of saliva connects them. Connor pulls back until it snaps, a trail sliding down his chin. Reed looks down at him expectantly, and when Connor only stares blankly up at him, the hand in his hair shakes him harshly.

“Come on, deviant. You know what’s next. Don’t tell me CyberLife didn’t think of everything when they designed you,” he sneers.

Connor thinks about getting up. About pushing Reed away and calling a taxi and going to Hank’s house. Even though Hank will be at work, he told Conner where he kept the spare key, under a rock by the garage. “So you won’t break another goddamn window,” Hank had said. He could go inside and pet Sumo, and when Hank got home, he could—

Nothing. He could do nothing.

The red wall rises up before him.

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

Having Reed interfere and getting Hank suspended will be detrimental to the investigation. And it shouldn’t matter if he does this or not. Everything he feels is a simulation, it’s not real. This makes no difference. It’s not real.

He’s just a machine.

Connor lifts his hands to Reed’s belt buckle. The hand gripping his hair shakes him again, lightly, and Reed snickers.

“That’s what I thought. Finally learning your place, deviant.”

A member of the investigation team could return at any moment and see what they’re doing. Would they be shocked at the sight? Would they ignore it? Would they find this a gross misuse of investigative equipment?

Many people experiment with androids, and CyberLife accounted for that when building its models. Most are equipped for some kind of sexual intercourse, even if it’s the most basic on the market. Connor is kitted out completely for the sake of the investigation, so that no avenue will go unexplored. But Connor had certainly never projected that he would be put into such a situation. He’s not sure if he wants someone to interrupt and end this, or if he would prefer there were no witnesses.

If someone came in, would they join Reed?

When he pulls Reed’s pants and boxers down, his dick hangs heavily, already mostly hard. It’s pale but growing rapidly red at the tip. Connor’s program tries to open up a fellatio subroutine, and he considers shutting it down too, before he lets it activate. The better to get this over with quickly, and return to the precinct.

He lets the subroutine take over like instinct and leans in, taking the head into his mouth, lathing it with saliva and then sucking lightly on the head. The smell of sweat and arousal is thick. Above him, Reed hisses through his teeth, both hands finding purchase in Connor’s hair again. Strands fall across Connor’s forehead.

Connor opens his mouth wide and takes more of Reed’s cock, letting his tongue work the underside, tracing the pulsing vein he finds there. Saliva flows faster with his subroutine active, and he makes sure to coat Reed’s cock before bringing a hand up—the one not lacerated and covered in thirium—and massaging the base.

The pulse under his tongue opens a heart rate monitor, and Reed’s has climbed to 98bpm.

It’s thickening in his mouth, growing harder. Connor’s programmed bodily responses are fully active too, and he can feel slick lubricant building up in his hole and sliding down his thighs. His own dick is growing hard, an automatic response to the situation.

He tries to shut the autonomous systems down, but his request is denied. An uncomfortable pressure builds low in his stomach.

He pulls back, sucking his lips along the cock, before plunging back down on it, feeling it hit the back of his throat. Pulling fully away, Connor mouths at it, kissing and licking along the length as it slides against his cheek.

Reed’s eyes are dark and half-lidded as he stares down at Connor, lips parted. Connor looks away quickly, and the hands tighten in his hair, forcing his head back so Reed can feed his cock into Connor’s mouth. The heart rate monitor spikes to 116bpm.

“Are you fucking hard?” Reed grunts, incredulous. “Didn’t know you had anything down there. God, can’t believe sucking me off is that good for you. You really are a deviant, aren’t you?”

It is a programmed reaction to the situation, Connor doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to say anything. His mouth slides along Reed’s dick, and when it touches the back of his throat again, his nose nearly buried in Reed’s coarse, dark pubic hair, he swallows around it. Reed rocks into his mouth with an aborted shout, pulling Connor’s hair hard.

The friction of Connor’s dick against his pants feels good and he resists the urge to grind into it. He’s not a deviant. Nothing he feels is real. It will be over soon.

Reed apparently feels the need to say a lot. “You feel just like a human. Now I get why so many people go to Eden Club.” Then he laughs. “Guess I don’t have to though, since I have you.” He takes control, using his grip on Connor to hold his head still as he begins thrusting. “Oh, fuck,” he groans. “You just look so goddamn good messed up like that, blue blood all over you, buttons fucked up. I could do this all damn day.”

 _“I wanted her to hold me in her arms again,”_ his processors dredge up the Traci’s words unprompted. _“Make me forget about the humans. Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.”_

He closes the memory file, and it opens again. _Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words._

He closes it. It opens. _Their dirty words._

His subroutine stutters and goes offline suddenly, but it doesn’t matter. Reed is gripping his head tight, fucking his mouth. Connor’s dick strains against his pants and he can feel the slick preparation fluid soaking the inseam..

Reed growls loudly, a sound that turns into an open-mouth moan as he arches his back and stills, dick pulsing against Connor’s tongue. Thick salty fluid bursts against the back of his throat. The dick pulls out, Reed finally releasing Connor’s head to fist at his dick and thrust it at Connor’s face. Ropey white ejaculate hits his cheek and drips from his lips. The heart rate monitor finally closes.

“Holy shit,” Reed pants, and presses his dick to Connor’s cheek, smearing the semen. “Gotta get a picture of that.” He pulls his phone out and rests his dick against Connor’s lower lip, snapping a picture. The artificial camera shutter echoes against the tiles.

Connor’s processors are frozen again. The corner of his vision flashes with a program instability warning. His chest feels tight, biocomponents and servos locking up.

Tucking his dick back into his pants and buckling it, Reed looks down at him thoughtfully. “You know, maybe I should get Fowler to stick you with me permanently. Especially if I get to use your pretty plastic mouth however I want.”

Connor says nothing, but the tight feeling in his chest only gets worse.

“Remember,” Reed says. “Not a word to anyone, or you can kiss this investigation goodbye, you dirty fucking deviant.

The door swings shut behind Reed, and Connor kneels on the floor until the tight feeling in his chest finally loosens. It takes a very long time.

**\---**

When he stands, the motor controls in his legs are weak, and he uses the sink as leverage to pull himself up. His come smeared face greets him when he glances at the mirror, and he looks down quickly, spitting the remaining ejaculate into the sink. Turning the faucet on, he cups his hands under the cold water and splashes it across his face, washing the fluid away. The water turns light blue as it rinses the gash on his palm. The inner lining of his plates have been repaired, but the outer linings and sensors are still lacerated and peeled back, showing plastic instead of skin around the damage.

He pats his face dry with a paper towel, and when he checks the mirror again, he’s completely clean. His fingers search for the top button of his shirt, and when they meet only artificial skin and more healing plastic, he remembers that half the buttons are gone and he’s coated in thirium. He’ll have to return to CyberLife for a change of clothes.

Reed is talking to another investigator and doesn’t even look his way when Connor passes through the kitchen. He leaves through the back door, returning Officer Miller’s wave automatically, and rounds the building into the alley, and back out onto the front street.

He hails the first taxi that passes by and interfaces with it absently.

Connor isn’t sure if he prefers Reed to act like nothing happened, but it feels strange that he gave Reed fellatio in the bathroom with at least five other people two rooms away, and no one knows or cares. He calculates that the only concern anyone might show would be over whether they contaminated a crime scene. That it occured while on the job.

The snow-speckled streets are becoming busier as the morning passes. People and their androids are out on the sidewalks, going about their everyday lives.

Hank might care, he thinks suddenly. In what way, Connor cannot be sure. Hank has been annoyed by Connor disobeying his orders in the past, but he was pleased when Connor allowed the Traci’s to escape. Would he be pleased or disgusted by Connor’s show of obedience for the sake of the investigation?

The taxi pauses at a stoplight, in front a burned out storefront. On the other side of the street is a pet store, the front window lit by a changing rainbow of light showing off a display of fish tanks.

Connor rests his forehead against the window. From here, he can’t identify the fish as they float idly in their tanks, their scales flashing in hues of green, blue, violet, and then red as the display light pulses slowly. The first sign of software instability that Connor can recall is when he picked up that Gourami fish in the Phillips’ home. He has displayed several since then, errors that he cannot find the source of and he is wary of alerting CyberLife to.

Traffic picks up, and soon the taxi is leaving the downtown area, weaving towards the outskirts, where the roads are a little emptier.

In his own coarse and human way, Hank is becoming deviant—he has started showing more empathy for androids, especially after the Eden Club case, the night he questioned Connor about android death.

Hank disliked that Reed punched Connor. Hank would probably dislike that they performed a sexual act together in a semi-public place while on the job.

His fingers tap rhythmically against his leg—he digs his coin out of his coat pocket, flipping it between his fingers to release the sudden influx of energy.

It is not uncommon for people to perform sexual acts with androids, but Hank had shown a mild disgust of the Eden Club androids and the humans who rented them. He had shown empathy for the Tracis, though.

A static sensation climbs up his circuits, spreading through his servos and circuits, like he’s being cut off from them, except he can still function fine. Connor shoots the coin from one hand to the other.

If he knew what Connor had done for the investigation, Hank’s history of contempt makes it more likely that Hank will be disgusted by Connor, increasing the tensions in their relationship and possibly hindering the investigation. The static feeling encompasses Connor’s hands, numbing them, fingers fumbling the coin. It slips and falls to the floorboard.

He returns the coin to his pocket and puts his hands in his lap, running a diagnostic. Everything comes back clean, but the numbness doesn’t subside.

The taxi slows, comes to a stop, and Connor is halfway out before he realizes he’s not at CyberLife Tower.

He’s at 115 Michigan Drive—Hank’s home. He leans in and checks the taxi’s navigator, and sees it’s the destination he’d given when interfacing. For a moment he stands half-in the taxi, looking at the house. Sumo is inside, likely sleeping on the couch. There’s a key under a rock by the garage—a security risk that Hank ignored when Connor pointed out the dangers.

Hank would be annoyed if he came home and found Connor sitting on his couch. He would want to know why Connor is covered in thirium. Why Connor came to his house instead of CyberLife.

He doesn’t know why he came here. He thought he put CyberLife tower as his destination.

A software instability warning blinks at him, a threat.

Connor climbs slowly back into the taxi, thoughts sluggish beneath the static feeling, and inputs the correct destination. He follows the compulsion to look back at the little house, watching it until the car rounds the next corner and it disappears from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My update schedule is Monday and Thursday! I've told people in the comments and realized I should probably make that clear in the notes too, so people can know when to expect more lol.
> 
> Another thing I keep meaning to mention is that I wrote the majority of this fic while listening to [this fanmix](https://connor-rk.tumblr.com/post/176292909716/yesbutwhatashame-rk800-what-about-you) on repeat. It's wonderful and I highly recommend you give it a listen!
> 
> This is a shorter chapter this time, a cool down from the things that happened last chapter.

His desk is plain and unadorned despite Hank’s disapproval over the lack of personal items. He’s not a person though, so he leaves it as is, working through the evidence, letting the information they’ve gathered for the case push the past few days to the back of his processors.

The connections are obvious. These murders always happen at night, just after the places close, when most of the staff are gone. The RF700 gets in and kills the humans first with a single gunshot from a Beretta M9. The bullets had come back from forensics and confirmed the make and model of the gun, but that didn’t get them any further—not every pawnshop in Detroit keeps a perfect record when it comes to selling guns, and even if they sold to an android, none of them would admit it.

Then the RF700 dismantles the androids, looking through their biocomponents. Maybe for an irregularity. Connor’s not entirely sure what, and he’s getting the feeling that the RF700 isn’t sure either. It connects to their processors and combs their files, experimenting with the settings and programs, as Layla’s memories had revealed.

His memory files call up the feeling of burning as his thirium regulator is pulled out of his chest, and for a moment he can’t tell which memory he’s accessing—Layla’s or his own. He closes it without checking.

The RF700 then steals their memory chips. Connor’s intuition tells him that the RF700 is taking their programs and files in an attempt to find a way to reverse deviancy. Because Layla’s memories had revealed motive—the RF700 is deviant, and wants to return to being compliant.

Connor flips through the files. The one thing that sets the cases apart is the two deviants. Layla hid her— _it’s_ memory chip and deleted everything so the RF700 would have nothing to find. And the RF700 must have realized Layla was deviant when it connected with its access port, but didn’t have any of its memories and files to look through to find out why and how Layla became deviant, so it became frustrated.

Gordon became deviant by breaking its programming during the RF700’s next murder.

Again his memory files, unbidden, call up the shattering red walls as Gordon broke free and defended himself. _Itself_.

Connor resists burying his face in his hands and focuses harder on the notes.

Gordon escaping into the dining room must have panicked the RF700, and instead of giving chase, it likely took off, in case Gordon contacted the police.

Looking at all the crime scenes so far, highlighted on a map, they’re within five miles of each other. The RF700’s base of operations or hideout is, in all probability, within five miles of the first crime scene. And since it has kept within that five mile radius, that means the next place it hits will probably be within that area. So if they find the next likely targets and stake them out, they’ll have a good chance of catching the RF700 at the next place it strikes. Satisfied, Connor begins to compose a proposal for Fowler for the operation.

Something soft flicks across his nape. He jumps at the sensation, clapping a hand to the back of his neck, jerking around in his chair.

His chest is filled with a strange dropping sensation as he finds Reed smirking down at him. Thirium pump suddenly working doubletime, Connor turns back to his computer, ignoring Reed, who chuckles and walks off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hank caught the whole thing, shooting him questioning looks as he glances between Connor and Reed.

Ignoring him too, Connor tries to return to his proposal, but as if she’s right next to him, his ears fill with the sound of the Traci’s voice.

_“Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.”_

He closes his eyes, takes a simulated breath, and opens them.

Red walls slam up around him.

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

The sink digs into the pressure plates of his hips. Reed pushes down on his shoulders and Connor sinks to his knees.

_“You dirty fucking deviant.”_

He wants to shut it down—the pressure building in his stomach and the feeling that there’s something wrong with him.

 _“Their dirty words,”_ she hisses.

He wants to shut it down.

_“You just look so goddamn good messed up like that, blue blood all over you, buttons fucked up. I could do this all damn day.”_

He wants to shut down.

“Connor?” Hanks voice cuts through his audio processors, and his vision and hearing clear all at once. He’s not in the bathroom. He’s in the police station.

“Connor, Jesus Christ, are you hyperventilating?”

He is, he realizes. His thirium pump is beating far too fast and he’s gasping for air he doesn’t need. A warm hand grabs his shoulder and he shudders, then relaxes when it doesn’t do more than squeeze gently.

“I’m okay,” he says breathlessly, and dislikes the sound of it, weak and soft. “I’m okay,” he tries again, forcing his voice to steady. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, working to take back control of his body. He runs a hand down his shirt reflexively and every button is straight and in its proper hole.

“That looked really bad,” Hank says, unsure. “Do you need to go back to CyberLife, get that looked at? I don’t know shit about androids, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do—whatever the hell that was _._ ”

The hand doesn’t leave his shoulder, and when Connor finally chances a glance up, Hank looks disturbed by whatever he sees. Connor can relate. He has no idea what just happened to him. It felt like a complete malfunction. His visual processors had shown him the bathroom, as if he was still there. He’d only been able to hear Reed and the Traci’s words, like they were right next to him. He runs a complete diagnostic, but it turns up nothing.

“No, I’m okay,” Connor finally says. “Just a mild system error. It’s cleared, and everything is in working order.”

Hank is watching him closely. His LED, to be exact—it must be giving away some of his internal thought. Connor has the urge to look away, so Hank can’t see it.

“Look, I think we’ve both had enough for the day,” Hanks says, pulling back to his side of the desk.

Immediately, Connor misses the soft warmth, and has to stop himself from leaning into the retreating hand.

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Connor says.

“I mean, I’m done for the day, and so are you.” Hank heaves himself up, having abandoned the crutch as soon as the recommended three days were up, but still listing slightly as he tries to keep pressure off his injured leg. He gestures impatiently at Connor.

“I’m not done. I have a proposal for the case I need to write up, so that we can find the—” His tongue seems to catch on itself, trying to sidestep the word. He spits it out anyways. “Deviant.”

“Right,” Hank says, and the look he levels at Connor is dubious. “Well, it’s not anything that can’t wait until the morning. Even if you’ve got a plan, nothing can be done until tomorrow anyways. It’s too late in the day.”

Connor can’t find fault in that logic, but he still hesitates. There’s no red walls boxing him in. Just a list of tasks in a drop-down menu.

 _// Find RF700 //  
_ _// Propose operation to Fowler //_

And glitching in briefly, so quick Connor nearly misses it-

_// Pro7ect Hank //_

He shouldn’t go with Hank, though. He shouldn’t want to go with Hank. He should finish this proposal. He should return to CyberLife, to his storage unit. He’s just a machine, after all.

“Is that an order?” Connor asks lightly, putting a little sarcasm in his tone for good measure. It feels like his temperature regulator is crashing, like he’s burning from the inside. He wants Hank to make it easy.

“If it has to be, though god knows you never listen to any of my orders,” Hank says, but he’s half-smiling anyways in spite of his exasperated tone.

Relief floods his system. “I guess I can make an exception,” Connor says, and shuts his terminal down.

-

Hank knows he shouldn’t want Connor to become a deviant. But he thinks of the Tracis holding hands, of Connor not shooting them despite his mission, and of Connor saying he would find it regrettable for their investigation to be interrupted. As close to an admission as he could come that he didn’t want to die. Hank's not sure if deviancy is the same as humanity, but it's a damn close likeness. 

It’s obvious that Connor is struggling towards it, that one way or another it’s happening. Self-testing be damned, Connor is becoming deviant, and Hank knows he shouldn’t want it. CyberLife will dismantle Connor if they realize. They’ll hunt him just like Connor was sent to hunt deviants.

But he wants it, and though he knows he should feel bad for it, he doesn’t. Probably he’s being selfish, but he hasn’t cared about that in a long time. Besides, sitting across from Connor at Hank’s little kitchen table, where he used to play Russian Roulette and drown his memories, it feels right, as cheesy as it sounds. 

He can still remember the way Connor jumped and spun to look at Reed. Though Hank couldn’t see Connor’s face, he’d turned around enough that his LED had been visible for a second, flashing yellow-in-red.

If that hadn’t been strange enough, Connor had seemed to have—well, Hank hesitated to call it a panic attack, considering Connor’s an android. But the faraway look in his eyes, the hyperventilating, and how he’d taken too long to respond to Hank’s calls all pointed that way.

Getting Connor out of the precinct had been the right move, in any case. He’d relaxed almost as soon as they’d got in the car. It had been hard to drive the whole way without constantly checking on Connor, and for once Hank wished he had a self-driving car, just so he could keep on eye on Connor.

Hank didn’t want to ask so soon after Connor’s malfunction, or panic attack, or whatever it was, but now that he’s relaxed and had some time to distance himself from it, Hank thinks it’s time to do a little digging.

Pouring himself another two fingers of whiskey, Hank watches Connor’s LED intently as he says, “So, that little analysis thing you do. Why’d they put it in your mouth? Why not just let you use your fingers?”

Connor looks up from Sumo, who’s put his head in Connor’s lap to beg for food even though his bowl is full and Connor doesn’t have anything. “Hands and fingers can come into contact with and be contaminated by many things during the day, which would make analysis difficult. Having it in my mouth means that it has a regulated, self-cleaning environment for samples to be analysed without contamination.”

He sounds like he’s reciting from a manual, and Hank snorts in amusement. “Yeah, but it’s gross. I thought you were built to integrate with humans. CyberLife should have known seeing someone put blood in their mouth in the middle of a crime scene would freak people out a little.”

Smiling that barely-there smile, Connor nods slightly. “Maybe so. But I think they prefer I don’t confuse the dog dandruff on my fingers with DNA from crime scenes. I’d hate to have to arrest Sumo for murder.”

Hank laughs, and it feels so good. To be sitting at his kitchen table across from Connor, laughing at his shitty jokes. It’s selfish, encouraging Connor’s deviancy like this for his own sake. Cause he’s a pathetic, lonely old man who’s growing too attached.

But it’s good for Connor, too. He’s at ease, cracking jokes and smiling. Hasn’t said a word about Hank’s drinking yet, but the night’s still young.

“Okay, but you still put your fingers in the evidence half the time anyways, since you don’t just lick things off the ground,” Hank says, smirking at Connor’s thoughtful frown.

“Yes, I suppose you have a point. But generally speaking, I can separate the components of blood from anything else I may have come into contact with during the day, so it doesn’t interfere with my analysis.”

“Right, right, well, all I’m hearing is, they could have put it in your fingers, but CyberLife’s full of freaks. Is there a limit to what you can identify?” Hank asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip. Connor’s LED remains a steady blue.

“Of course,” Connor says. “I’m limited by the databases I have access to. Thanks to CyberLife and the Detroit police, I have permissions to access many databases of information, some very classified. Though it’s unlikely, evidence from someone or something that isn’t logged in any of those databases or in my own personal system will be unknown to me.”

“So can you do it with anything?” Hank asks, still working his way slowly towards his main point of interest.

“It’s primarily meant for fluid evidence, but yes, I’m able to use it to analyze non-fluid evidence as well,” Connor says.

Hank holds out the glass. “Alright, tell me everything you can dig up from this.”

Connor meets his challenge with that small smile. “Alright.” He dips two fingers in.

“Jesus, you could have just had a drink! You didn’t have to go sticking your fingers in it! Now I’ve probably got dog hair in here,” Hank groans. That was probably Connor’s game all along—to ruin Hank’s perfectly good whiskey so that he’d have one less drink in him. Fat chance.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, sounding completely unapologetic, and touches his whiskey-soaked fingers to his tongue.

Raising an eyebrow, Hank watches silently.

“Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, made with corn, rye, and barley malt,” Connor says quickly, matching Hank’s raised brow with one of his own. “Made with a mixture of five separate batches, all aged between 4 to 8 years. DNA present from Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit City Police Department, born September 6, 1985. DNA also present from one male St. Bernard dog, approximately 7 years old.”

“All that from a drop of whiskey,” Hank mutters appreciatively—it may be weird to see, and gross, but damned if the results aren’t impressive. Time to go in for the heart of the matter, though. Watching Connor carefully, he adds, “Bet Reed gets a kick out of seeing you do that.”

Red lights up Connor’s temple. He stills suddenly, the smile falling away, and drops his gaze to the table. “Perhaps,” he says after a long moment, voice quiet. “He doesn’t seem to find it as strange as you do.”

“Gotta say, I’m surprised Reed’s not ragging on you more about it,” Hank says, and means that. Despite his stiff tone and tense posture, he can tell Connor is telling the truth. But it’s obvious Reed is the source of Connor’s distress somehow.

When Connor remains silent, LED pulsing yellow, Hank says, “Reed’s not bothering you too much, is he? Saw him mess with you earlier today. It really seemed to get to you.”

Connor shakes his head, almost too quickly. “Detective Reed has been an adequate partner in the investigation,” he says, voice nearly robotic. His fingers run down the front of his shirt, like he’s counting his buttons. Hank’s seen him doing it a lot lately.

“Then what was with that reaction?” Hank presses, trying to keep his voice low, and the anger out of it. Reed’s done something, he knows it, and whatever happened is obviously stressing Connor out.

“Just a minor malfunction, as I said. CyberLife will sort it out,” Connor says, his LED flickering red then back to yellow. A lie.

“Cause you know, if Reed’s messing with you again,” Hank says, throwing subtlety out the window, “you can tell me. Whatever Fowler says, if Reed’s fucking with you, he’ll get in trouble for it, Connor.”

Connor looks up at his name, and his eyes catch on something only he can see, moving left to right like he’s reading.

“Yes, of course, Lieutenant.” Connor’s voice is distant. “However, I assure you I’m fine. I can handle Detective Reed’s childish taunting.”

“I’m serious, Connor,” Hank says. He wants to grab the android and shake him, to make him understand that whatever Reed’s saying, Connor doesn’t have to take it.

“Yes, of course, Lieutenant,” Connor says again, stubbornly placid. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have to go. I have to get back to CyberLife, to address the malfunction issue.” Connor stands, LED flashing red again. Hank can't tell if it's a warning or a call for help.

“Connor, wait, hold on!” Hank stands, setting the glass down and limping as quick as he can, catching Connor’s upper arm halfway through the living room. Connor freezes, everything in him going tense, temple flaring red-yellow-red-yellow, and there’s _fear_ in his widening eyes. Hank immediately lets go. “Shit, sorry, are you-?”

Connor doesn’t let him finish, jerking away as soon as Hank releases him and making for the door, opening and closing it behind him quietly but quickly.

“Fuck.” Hank rubs a hand tiredly over his eyes, feeling a headache coming. He wanders back to the kitchen table and downs the glass of whiskey—feeling the burn of it in his throat and wishing it hurt more—slamming it down with another, “Fuck!”

Sumo comes over to lean heavily on Hank’s leg and whines.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! We've reached the halfway point of the fic, so now it's all downhill from here lol.
> 
> As before, the triple dashes signify that the next scene contains noncon. This one's a doozy folks. Good luck.

Days pass, but Hank doesn’t ask Connor about his strange behavior, and Connor feels grateful. Or a simulacrum of gratefulness. Whatever response his system puts out from the input of Hank deciding to let the issue with Reed rest.

Sometimes he’s not sure where the simulation ends.

He finishes the proposal to Fowler, who accepts and gives Connor the task of figuring out the next likely places the RF700 will hit. In the meantime, Fowler begins to pool their resources—tapping officers who will fit the job, contacting the places Connor suggests, using connections to get an in with them, and sorting out a timeline.

Reed smirks at him from his desk, brushes past too close when they pass each other, watches Connor analyze evidence at crime scenes, but Connor avoids being alone with him. His system goes into some kind of overload when Reed is around. Memory files opening on their own, joints locking up, audio-visual glitches.

He visits Amanda for another self-test and she looks disappointed.

“You’re losing focus, Connor,” she says, standing at the pond’s edge, the grass swaying around their feet in a brisk wind. “Whatever happens to you is unimportant.”

“Of course, Amanda,” Connor says, but his tone is troubled. He looks down at the bright koi, swimming placidly beneath the sun-dappled water, and it reminds him of the first case he took as this Connor, the 51st of his kind.

“Find the deviant, and we may see what makes it want to return to being a machine. This could solve the deviancy problem. You have one objective.” She tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the water, creating a wave of ripples.

The koi pick at the crumbs, sucking them into their little searching mouths. Do they know what they are? Do they know they’re strings of code in a pond made of data? Or do they think of one day going somewhere other than this pond, not knowing that this pond is all there is for digital fish?

Connor thinks of picking up the fish from the Phillips’ floor and putting it back in its tank.

It would have been better to let it die.

**\---**

He opens his eyes and the precinct is empty. It’s late at night, and though there are always officers around, there aren’t any at their desks or in the break room.

Hank left hours ago, with another invitation for Connor to come with him. He’d looked hopeful, and then disappointed when Connor had refused, citing his need to help finish preparing for the sting operation. But Hank hadn’t given up.

“Well, the invitation stands if you change your mind.” Hank had leveled him with such a pointed look, and Connor had been forced to look away, in case his face made any involuntary expressions.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he’d said, with no intention of following up on Hank’s offer. Hank suspects something has happened between him and Reed, and it’s better to maintain a professional distance until Hank lets the subject go.

His thirium pumps feels heavy in his chest, but there are no hardware failure notifications, no biocomponent malfunction warnings. Just the weight of it, an uneasy thing.

Connor stands, stiff plates and joints loosening from being stuck in the same position for so long, and heads towards the evidence room. He needs to look the physical evidence over again, in case he missed something that could further pinpoint the next place likely to be hit. Fowler had given him temporary access for the sake of the investigation, so he uses the pass he’d been given to open the door and head down into the archive.

The room is awash with light from the evidence wall and the LED panels, but the dark walls give the room a dim look. As he accesses the terminal, he hears the door at the top of the stairs open behind him.

Likely one of the forensics team here to log a piece of evidence. Connor ignores them, typing in his temporary password and pulling up the relevant case number.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” an all too familiar voice says. A hand grips Connor’s arm, digging in. Connor’s thirium pump skips a beat and his breath catches.

Reed turns him around easily, because that static numbness has spread from the spot Reed touches, like his systems are going down.

“Detective Reed. I thought you had gone home for the day,” he says. He’d watched Reed leave with most of the other officers, talking with some of them as he’d headed out.

“Forgot something and decided it couldn’t wait,” he says blithely enough that Connor wonders if that’s true. “You know, I feel like you’ve been avoiding me. I had to find out from Fowler about your little sting operation. As your _partner_ ,” Reed sneers, “I expected to be the first to know.”

“My apologies, Detective Reed,” Connor says stiffly. His social relations program is offering up further placating options, but Connor doesn’t even look at them. He’s too focused on Reed’s face, the anger boiling in his eyes.

_// Stress Level - 100% //_

“My _apologies_ ,” he mimics sarcastically. The hand on Connor’s arm become vice-like, the plates grinding together distressingly. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re not regretting our little _tête-à-tête_ , are you?”

“I have no feelings one way or another about what happened,” Connor says. He checks the camera mounted in the corner of the room, blinking red light looking down on them.

Catching his look, Reed glances over his shoulder at it and smirks. “Oh please, you think anyone watches the cameras? If anything happens, sure, we’ll check them. But that’s if something happens and they know about it. And no one’s gonna know, are they?”

Connor says nothing.

“Good boy,” Reed says, voice faux-sweet. The grip on his arm finally releases, Reed resting both of his hands on Connor’s hips instead, an intimate gesture. “But I’m really hurt you’ve been avoiding me, you know? I’m your partner, and it’s kinda pissing me off that you still don’t know your place.”

The hands are insistent, pressing him back against the wide terminal. Connor resists, locking his knees, red walls rising around him as soon as he does.

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

Connor opens his internal communication system, but on his HUD the green phone icon that comes up is crossed in red. He sends an access request and gets back an error message.

It redirects him to his current goal, printed in red on an invisible wall.

“Come on, you stupid hunk of plastic.”

He opens his mouth to call out, and lightning quick a hand closes over it. He tastes the ammonia and salt of sweat, the scent thick in his nose.

“I don’t think so. One word, and you know what’ll happen, _deviant_.”

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

He views his task menu and finds the glitching box at the bottom.

_// Pro7ect Hank //_

Hank can’t be suspended because of Connor, because of this. Because Connor didn’t do what he was made for—complete integration with humans in the pursuance of solving the deviancy case.

Eyes darting everywhere but Reed’s face, he finally takes a step back, hitting the wide access terminal. The hand drops from Connor’s mouth to his belt buckle, and Connor jumps slightly in surprise.

“Had to see what kind of junk CyberLife gives its plastic detectives,” Reed mutters, and his voice sounds almost defensive. “Take off your coat.”

Connor does, letting it drop to floor. After that his hands find the lower edge of the terminal, squeezing the cool metal tight as Reed unbuttons Connor's pants and hooks his hands into the waistband of his pants and underwear, sliding it all down in one quick motion. The open air is chill against Connor’s groin, his thermal regulator working quickly to balance the feeling.

“Huh.” Reed’s fingers trail up Connor’s limp member, looking like any other human genitalia. CyberLife’s commitment to complete integration with the RK800 model meant they’d spared no expenses in making Connor as life-like as possible.

A tremble starts in his fingers and arms, and Connor locks the joints, trying to halt it, but before long he can feel his entire body shaking minutely. His artificial lungs are dragging air in quickly, his heart— _thirium pump_ pounding so loudly in his chest he’s surprised Reed doesn’t complain about the sound.

Reed’s hand wanders further between Connor’s legs, prodding curiously at his opening. The ghosting fingers has his bodily systems reacting, and his dick twitches, lubricant beginning to build up in his hole. When the fingers press in slightly, feeling the warm slick easing his way, Reed's eyebrows shoot nearly to his hairline.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, pressing in further.

It’s an uncomfortable, stretching sensation, but Connor’s body accommodates it easily. His dick is filling out, that heavy feeling pooling in his stomach again. Despite his thermal regulator, he feels a chill numbness in his legs.

The stretching sensation disappears as Reed pulls his fingers out of Connor. When he brings his hand up between them, his fingers are coated in a clear, viscous fluid.

“Lick it clean,” Reed commands, fingers shoving into his mouth before Connor can react.

He laves the fingers with his tongue hesitantly, his analysis bringing up the water-based solution of his body’s lubricant. His tongue swirls around Reed’s fingers, working between them to catch every bit. Drool slides down Connor’s chin when Reed takes his hand back and wipes it on Connor’s shirt, leaving a dark wet smear.

“Sit on that.” Reed nods at the terminal behind Connor.

“This is highly unprofessional,” Connor says, voice strained to his ears, not knowing why he spoke in the first place. Some compulsion to try to talk sense into Reed, perhaps.

Reed grabs his tie, jerking him close, breath hot against Connor’s lips, growling, “Do I look like I give a shit?”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” Connor forces his arms to unlock and push him up onto the terminal. Reed doesn’t give him a moment’s pause, shoving him down until he’s flat against the touch screen.

He can hear the sound of Reed unbuckling his belt, but Connor looks at the tiled ceiling. There are 400, his system helpfully calculates. Hands grip his knees, spreading his thighs, exposing him. Something prods at his opening, thicker and hotter than fingers.

Connor ignores the Traci’s hissed words in his ears. _“Make me forget about the humans.”_

He doesn’t need to forget. None of this matters. He feels far away, like this is happening to someone else, and he’s watching the world pass him by through red glass walls—a fish in a bowl.

Reed’s dick presses into him, sliding in easily thanks to the lubricant his body produces. A sexual intercourse subroutine opens and he shuts it down without a thought.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Reed says, body hunching over Connor’s, hands to either side of him. The touch screen lights up at the input, bathing them in a cold blue backlight. “And so fucking wet.”

Reed pulls out, and then presses back in slowly, hitting something deep inside. Connor’s whole body jolts as pleasure floods his system, snapping him back to full awareness. His dick twitches, completely hard and dripping against his stomach, and his hands curl uselessly against the terminal. Connor closes his eyes, trying to bury himself again.

The sound of Reed pulling out and thrusting back in is obscenely wet and loud in the quiet archive.

“Hey, deviant, not even gonna look at me when I’m giving you the best lay of your plastic life?”

“Would you like me to watch?” Connor asks, and is glad when his voice doesn’t come out as shaky as he feels.

Instead of replying, Reed pauses in his movement, and there are fingers at Connor’s collar, yanking his tie apart and sliding it from around his neck. Then his hands are gathered together, and it wraps around his wrists, pulling them tight. They’re wrenched above his head, held in place by the length Reed winds around his hand and grips the top edge of the terminal with.

Reed’s other hand begins unbuttoning Connor’s shirt, a familiar feeling. Connor tenses, and then forces himself to relax as Reed grunts and rocks into the sudden pressure.

Alarms blare in his head, and Connor gasps, eyes flying open as his thirium regulator is ripped from his chest, vision glitching wildly. The countdown appears on his HUD, but he ignores it, looking between them to see that Reed didn’t bother removing it properly this time. Bright blue thirium coats them both, pooling in the plastic port and running down Reed’s hand from the small component.

“Glad I got your attention,” Reed says. “Now keep your eyes on me. Better hope I get off quick, cause you’re not getting this back until my come is dripping out of your tight little plastic hole.” He begins thrusting again.

Connor’s vision nearly whites out from the conflicting input. The sensitive spot Reed is hitting inside him is only making the pressure in his stomach build—his dick feels like the slightest touch will set it off. His heart hammers against his chest plate, trying to distribute the blood that’s sliding down the sides of his chest, and he’s gasping for air. Fingers wiggling, he pulls against the tie, but his biocomponents can’t fulfill his frantic commands.

“Fuck yeah, that’s what I like,” Reed groans, half-laughing, eyes raking down Connor’s figure. “You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”

 _“Their dirty words,”_ Traci says in his memories.

The sound of flesh hitting synthetic flesh fills the room, but Connor can barely hear it over his systems going haywire. His body is trying to thrust against Reed, to find release from the unbearable pressure, but the lack of flowing thirium is making him too weak to move properly, for which he’s pathetically grateful. He doesn’t want to be a part of this.

He wants to shut down.

Reed’s thrusting speeds up, and Connor glances at the countdown. Sixty more seconds.

He receives an error when he accesses his communication system, but that’s okay. He watches the crossed out red phone icon blink. What would he even say to Hank right now?

It doesn’t matter. He isn’t real. He’s just a machine. This Connor will shut down and -52 will replace him. A different body, untouched by Reed or by the software errors causing him to think of himself as anything other than a digital fish.

Reed is panting above him, making incoherent sounds. He thrusts into Connor hard, driving him against the terminal, and then grabs Connor’s dick, jerking it roughly. Pleasure surges through Connor’s system, hips canting into the feeling, and his vocal processor forces out a strange, needy whine. Reed laughs raggedly, watching Connor’s face with predatory hunger.

His dick is so hard, every pressure point lighting up with the feeling of Reed’s calloused hand roughly working him. Reed squeezes, the building pressure unbearable, until Connor comes with a cry across his bloody, trembling stomach.

“Fuck!” Abruptly Reed shoves into him and stills, and hot come fills him. Reed pulls out, pumping his dick a few more times, another load landing across Connor’s already thirium and come soaked shirt. Connor can feel it leaking from his hole and soaking his thighs.

‘How much time you got left?” Reed asks breathlessly, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“Ten seconds,” Connor says, trying to keep the disappointment from his tone.

Reed doesn’t bother making him count it down this time, slamming the thirium regulator into his chest. Connor gasps as his system restarts. His hands are released, but he lays still on the terminal as everything recalibrates and comes back online. There’s an artificial shutter sound, and Connor’s gaze flicks from the ceiling to Reed. His phone is in his hand, shutter clicking twice, three times, four.

Their gazes lock and Reed waves the phone. “Need something to remember this by. Maybe I’ll send you a copy. Sound good?” He tucks the phone into his jacket and begins pulling his pants back up. “Clean this mess up, deviant.” Reed says, zipping his jacket closed over his thirium covered shirt. He heads back up the stairs without another word.

Connor looks up at the ceiling, the red phone icon turning green as his communication system comes back online. Hank’s number appears next to it. He closes it and sits up.

The tie comes loose around his hands, falling to the floor by his coat. He pulls his pants on mechanically, feeling far away again, watching from behind the glass as his body puts itself together. Comes slides thick and slippery down his legs.

He picks the tie up and re-ties it around his neck. Fingers fumble the buttons of his bloody shirt up, double checking they’re straight. He grabs his coat, pulls it on and close, and between its natural fall and his tie, it mostly covers the stain. Slides a hand along the buttons again, just in case.

His body’s automatic response to the situation has started to fade too. That’s good.

There’s blue blood splattered across the terminal and ground. It will evaporate by morning, but he can’t stand the thought of it being there, for people to touch parts of him he’s left behind. He has to clear the evidence.

Finding the precinct completely deserted when he leaves the archives, he grabs paper towels from the bathroom and makes an attempt at cleaning his shirt of thirium and semen, but the thirium stains won’t come out until they begin to evaporate. He puts the towels in the trash can, and throws a few more on top for good measure, before returning to the evidence room. Wiping it up is the work of a minute, and then he stands staring down at the bloody towels and the newly cleaned space. It’s like nothing happened at all.

Because nothing did. He’s just a machine.

-

The doorbell cuts across the movie he’s watching, and Hank groans. Sumo, laid out on the floor under the coffee table, heaves sigh, as if he’s also too tired for visitors.

“Who th’ hell is it?” he calls. Hopefully they’ll go away and he can keep drinking in peace. He pours some more whiskey and the doorbell buzzes again in answer to his question.

“Hold on, I’m comin’,” he grumbles, heaving himself off the couch. The living room spins, and he catches the arm rest before he falls completely over, a sting shooting up his thigh from his still-healing wound. Stumbling and hobbling to the door, he unlocks and cracks it a bit against the winter air outside, flipping the front light on.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Connor says, smiling his crooked little smile. It looks even more awkward at the moment, as if he wants to frown instead. Snow coats Connor’s shoulders and sparkles in his dark hair, which looks slightly out of place. A little more mussed than normal.

“Connor? The hell’re you doin’ here?”

The smile drops quickly from Connor’s face, and somehow that’s even worse. There’s the slightest furrow between his eyebrows. “My apologies, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize how late it was. I won’t keep you.” Connor presses a hand against his chest, and Hank thinks for a moment he sees dark spots against the white shirt.

Connor turns to go, and Hank flounders for a second, forgetting the spots, saying, “I didn’t say you had t’ leave, jus won’erin’ what you’re doin’ here. Come on, come in, I’m freezin’ my balls off out here.” Hank backs up, opening the door to let Connor through into the dark living room.

The front light casts long, dark shadows down Connor’s cheeks. He hesitates on the threshold, still holding his chest, LED spinning yellow, and then steps inside.

Hank leaves him to close the door, limping back to the couch and plopping down.

“Come on, have a seat. I’m jus’ watchin’ a movie and gettin’ drunk. The usual.” Hank shoots Connor a look, daring him to say anything about his drinking habits, but Connor seems distracted as he sits. “What made you change your mind?”

“What?” Connor asks, looking intently at the floor, as if it held fresh blue blood needing to be analyzed.

“About coming here,” Hank says. “Didn’t think you’d show up.” After the stiff refusal, Hank had been sure Connor was through with Hank’s invitations and his prying. It had stung, more than it should have, and Hank had unashamedly decided to drown those feelings in alcohol. It had only kind of been working.

“I don’t know,” Connor says, voice strangely small and quiet.

“Well, that’s alrigh’.” Hank grabs his glass, draining it quickly and settling back against the cushions. “I’ve got a classic on. _The Stone Gods._ Had to read th’ book in high school.”

Connor turns his attention to the screen, which is good. He looks like he needs distracting from whatever he’s thinking about.

“If you wanna talk jus’, you know, talk, or whatever,” Hank says around a yawn. He’s got a weird feeling he can’t pin down. Something to do with what happened with Connor a few nights ago. His mind is too fuzzy from the alcohol to catch exactly what it was, so he just slumps down further, propping his head up with one hand. All he knows is the damn android needs to open up a little, and this is coming from Hank, the king of bottling up bullshit.

But Connor sits in silence, watching the movie, so Hank does too.

After a while, the soft sounds of the TV lull him into a light doze. He feels the empty glass dropping from his hand, and when he opens his eyes, Connor catches it, placing it gently on the low table. Hank’s lids slip closed again.

They open again after what feels like a few minutes, but judging by the credits rolling across the screen, has probably been almost two hours. There’s a weight resting against him, and he glances over to see Connor has moved close, leaning into his side. He’s warm, and without thinking, Hank stretches an arm across Connor’s shoulders. The movement startles Connor, who starts to pull away, but Hank hooks his hand around him and drags him back quietly, eyes dropping shut again.

-

With much griping and complaining, Hank allows Connor to maneuver him to his bedroom and into his bed. There’s a 65% chance Hank won’t remember that Connor was here tonight, and that’s preferable. He shouldn’t have come here. He does a lot of things he shouldn’t do lately.

He came to Hank’s house, still stained by what he and Reed did. Hank would not appreciate finding out his home and space had been unknowingly violated like that. The intent to speak of what had happened had been enough to throw the red wall before Connor and prevent him from approaching the front door. It had taken ten minutes standing in the snow to resolve not to tell Hank, satisfying his programming into dropping the wall so he could ring Hank’s doorbell.

He shouldn’t have wanted to tell in the first place. He shouldn’t have needed to satisfy his programming. It used to be automatic.

 _“Dirty fucking deviant.”_ Reed hisses in his ears.

He calls a taxi and lets himself out when it arrives, giving Sumo, who climbed up onto the warm couch when it was vacated, one last pat.

The ride back to CyberLife through the cold, dark streets of the outskirts of Detroit is silent. Snow falls slow but steady, and he watches it, fidgeting with his coin. Something is caught in his vocal processors, a sound that Connor refuses to make. He presses his lips tight and the buildings pass in orange, sodium lit intervals.

CyberLife is bright white, a stark contrast to the dim warmth of Hank’s home. He walks the halls among scientists who work late shifts and security guards making rounds, riding the elevator to the storage unit levels, where all of the tower’s androids are kept when not in use.

The storage units are arranged in a uniform line along the walls that curve away and out of view. There’s a decontamination shower for androids at the level’s entrance, a tiled room separated by a glass wall for the machines to clean off the day’s debris. Connor is simultaneously appreciative and apprehensive. There’s no one around, no humans or androids to witness.

There’s nothing to witness.

He drops his coat and tie into a laundry bin, where it will be picked up by one of the cleaning androids, washed, and returned to his storage unit. His fingers hesitate over the top button of his shirt, and he forces his motor controls into action.

His chest is still smeared in blue, and he presses a palm to his humming regulator. Next he pulls his pants and underwear down, and it sticks as it parts from his skin. He tosses them into the bin and hurries into the decontamination shower, trying not to think of the come stuck like dried glue to his thighs.

The phantom click of a camera shutter echos in his processors.

The showers are timed, and the shower head he steps under activates from the motion, spraying him with cold, soapy water. He wipes the thirium from his chest, watching through the window for any sign of movement, but no one appears.

He reaches between his legs, scraping the come away with his fingers, and the biocomponents in his chest feel wound tight.

_“Clean this mess up, deviant.”_

Connor jerks up, looking around wildly.

It’s just another glitch. There’s no one in here. He’s completely alone.

His breath hitches as the red wall appears before him.

Something brushes his regulator, and he starts, but there’s nothing there.

_“You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”_

It’s not real. It’s just his memory files glitching. The soap has filtered out, and he wipes the suds off with the clean water pouring over him, but he can’t stop glancing around the room. He feels too vulnerable, which is ridiculous. There is no one here but him.

The red wall remains, and he can’t tell if it’s another part of the glitch or his system reminding him of his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment and let me know what you think! See you Thursday, dear reader.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments on the last chapter kind of blew my mind a whole lot, so I wanna thank you all for your kind words. Y'all are so fucking sweet.
> 
> We're coming up on the climax. The first section of this fic contains the beginnings of a non-con scene, but it is cut off by a scene change.

Fowler wrangles the cooperation of three establishments who are the next likely targets of the RF700. Another large restaurant with mainly android servers, a dance studio with android instructors, and Eden Club. All within five miles of the first murders, all with a large amount of androids at their disposal. They all close late at night, and have few human workers who stay to finish any closing procedures.

Eden Club is the priority target—it has the largest amount of androids, the fewest humans on staff, and closes at 1 a.m. The only one who stays late to close shop is the manager, who makes sure the androids are stored properly before leaving out the back. Even better, Eden Club now has a history with androids going deviant in it thanks to the Tracis. The perfect target for the RF700.

When Fowler calls out the assignments to the teams he’s chosen, Connor catches Reed smirking as they’re placed at Eden Club.

It’s not an infiltration mission, but they do have to be in the club’s storage and receiving room in the hour before and after closing. Reed is given an android custodial uniform. Connor is given a skimpy undergarment like the ones he’d seen on the male models pole-dancing throughout the club.

Their first night, they arrive in an unmarked car and park it a block away, walking to the club in their normal clothes. They enter like customers, and when the manager, Floyd Mills, catches sight of them, he directs them through the employee only door Connor had tracked the Traci through.

Entering the back room is strange. Everything is the same—the androids lined up in rows, waiting for their turn on the show room. The loading doors open onto a silent and dark back alley. Everything from his and Hank’s fight with the androids has long been righted, but he remembers struggling across the floor, getting stabbed through the hand, kicking a stool to knock the Traci away. Connor walks over to the lined up androids, feeling like any moment he’ll catch the Traci’s blinking LED as he scans them.

His system classes the feeling as deja-vu, and he shakes his head slightly to clear it.

“We had better change into our disguises,” Connor says, pulling his coat off, and then hesitates.

He can hear Reed shedding his clothes as well, the clink of his belt buckle hitting the floor. It sends a shiver through him, hands tightening in his coat. He’s already wearing the undergarment, all he needs to do is take his clothes off.

He unbuttons his shirt, resisting the urge to press a hand to his thirium regulator. But his systems stall as he undoes his pants, and he freezes, unable to force himself to push them down.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Reed says from across the room. Connor glances over his shoulder and finds Reed already dressed in the custodial uniform, hat pulled low to hide his lack of LED, lounging on a stool and looking at his phone.

Connor pushes his pants down, leaving him in only the thin undergarment, and folds his clothes neatly, placing them on a box in the corner marked Spare Parts. He leans against it, so that he can see the open loading bay and Reed on the other side of the room, ignoring him.

It’s a long couple of hours, and every shift or movement Reed makes has him on edge. Connor’s hand finds his regulator, covering it, and when he notices he forcibly drops it. Sometimes he thinks Reed looks at him, like a physical weight against his body. When he looks up though, Reed is occupied.

There’s no blue-haired Tracis among the androids stored in the back, but Connor’s memory files recall her words anyways.  _ “Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.” _

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

He ignores the malfunction, the instability notification, and the social relations program prompting him to initiate small talk. Saying anything to Reed is a risk, and obviously Reed has no qualms about-

About-

His mind stalls and he pushes the thought away.

The integrity of the investigation is obviously not a priority to Reed, so he remains quiet.

No one comes back there, not even the androids or the manager, until 1 a.m. Miller closes up, directing the few androids who don’t stay on the showroom floor overnight to line up. When he’s done, he flips the spare key to Reed with a, “Don’t touch anything,” and exits through the loading bay, slamming the rolling door down behind him.

Connor’s pulse jumps as the lock engages, but Reed doesn’t look up from his phone. His hand finds his thirium regulator again. He forces it down and takes the coin out of his pocket instead, flipping it back and forth between his hands, rolling it across his knuckles. Calibrating his dexterity takes the work of a few moments, but the rhythm is soothing. Their shift passes in silence, except for the ring of the coin.

The next night is nearly the same. It doesn’t change the fact that Connor pauses over his clothing, thirium pump picking up, glancing back to check Reed’s location, attention, and stress levels. It’s pointless, but he can’t stop himself.

The only difference is that a few minutes after Connor pulls out his coin, flipping it between his hands, Reed heaves a frustrated sigh and storms over to him. A numbness begins in Connor’s chest, spreading through him, and he juggles the quarter over his knuckles without processing the movement.

Reed snatches it up, pockets it, snarling, “Fucking tired of that coin, tincan,” and returns to his spot on the table, hoisting himself up on it with a huff.

With nothing to distract him, Connor watches Reed the rest of the night, waiting for the numbness to fade.

The third night, Connor makes the mistake of dropping his guard. He pulls his shirt off, working his belt buckle, expecting Reed is still doing the same—getting into uniform.

An arm circles his waist from behind, and Connor jerks hard, pulling away. Both hands grab him by the hips, hauling him back against a solid chest. One arm locks around Connor’s chest, holding him in place, while the other dives down the front of Connor’s pants, into the undergarment beneath, grabbing his member roughly.

“No,” he gasps, low, as the hand pumps his dick. His body reacts to the stimuli, and Connor sends frantic shutdown commands to his autonomous system. Each one is denied.

“Oh please.” Reed’s voice is husky and deep, his heavy breaths prickling against Connor’s ears. “Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this. Following orders and taking cock, and so far, it looks like you’re only good at one of those.” Something sharp and unpleasant closes against the side of neck, and a warning pops up as Connor’s skin breaks beneath straight white teeth.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want anything, he reminds himself. Everything he is, is an AI designed to follow orders and solve the deviancy case. He’s still within his operating parameters.

The red wall appears in front of him.

_ // DON’T INTERRUPT THE INVESTIGATION. // _

His tasks fall before him in a neat little menu.

_ // Maintain disguise //  
_ _ // Catch RF700 // _

And glitching in and out at the bottom-

_ // ProtBct Hank // _

Reed grinds into him, and Connor can feel he’s already hard.

Mills could come in at any moment, but if past behavior is any indication, he won’t. For the past two nights, no one has been back here except them until the club closed. Reed must have noticed, and decided to take advantage of the solitude.

“We are on a highly sensitive operation, Detective Reed,” Connor’s voice shakes, whole body shaking with it. Heat floods through him and Connor thinks of Layla, burning in the darkness. It’s so hot, he’s getting overheating notifications as his temperature regulator is overwhelmed.

“Shut up, deviant.” Reed licks at the thirium welling up from his mark, and then presses another bite higher up, against Connor’s jawline.

Electricity seems to shoot straight to his groin, and Connor moans, the sound only half-modulated.

“I recommend... we do not go any further while... in the middle of an active case.” Connor tries again, barely managing to pant the words. The hand in his pants jerks wildly, and Connor fights to keep from bucking into it.

The arm around Connor’s chest releases him to push his pants down to the top of his thighs, and then Connor feels Reed’s dick against the cleft of his rear. Reed pulls the string of the undergarment to the side and slides into Connor’s already wet hole. Then the hand reappears at his chin, tipping his head back as Reed bites the side of his jugular, fucking into him.

Connor stares up at the fluorescent lights, says, “Please stop, Detective Reed.”

He doesn’t.

-

Connor cleans up with the supplies meant for the androids of the club, and Reed sits on the edge of one of the work tables. It’s quiet, the darkness outside cold and empty.

His neck and shoulder is a mosaic of blue, semi-circular teeth marks, skin faded to white plastic around the bites. They’ll close in an hour, but in the meantime Connor wipes the thirium staining his skin with some sanitary wipes and finishes taking his clothes off, leaving him in nothing but the barely there undergarment that Reed had fucked him in.

At least Reed had come outside of him this time—the only positive Connor can think of as he reaches around and wipes semen off of his lower back. He hears a quiet click and glances at Reed, who’s got his phone pointed at Connor. Reed shoots him a nasty smirk.

_ “Their dirty words,”  _ the Traci whispers.

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

He drops the wipes in a nearby trash can, and it’s only because it’s so silent that Connor hears the distant rattle of the chain link fence.

“Detective Reed,” Connor whispers, glancing out of the loading bay at the square of cracked concrete lit by the storage room, glad his voice holds steady on the words. “Someone is approaching from the alley.”

Reed looks up, seemingly taking a moment to register Connor’s words, and then they’re both scrambling to their positions. Reed moves to the corner next to the cleaning supplies, mops, and chemical detergents. He goes into parade rest, like an android waiting to be needed. Connor joins the lines of club androids and settles his gaze on the short dark hair of the android in front of him. Footsteps sound in the alleyway, coming slowly closer. His internal clock says it’s nearing 1 a.m.

A foot props itself on the edge of the loading bay, and then an android in a dirty white and blue CyberLife uniform and a head of curly black hair heaves itself into the storage room. Connor’s peripheral is crystal clear—it’s the RF700. There’s a Beretta M9 in one raised hand.

Its gaze sweeps the room, touching Reed in the corner, and then landing on the rows of androids on the opposite wall. Connor keeps his limbs stiff but not tense, a doll waiting for use.

The RF700 weaves through the work tables and scattered tools, coming to the first android in line, five in front of Connor. It looks at the door to the club proper for a moment, finger tight on the trigger, before taking the android’s arm in its free hand. Synthetic skin peels back along both their arms as they connect and it probes their memory, before letting go and moving down the line to the next one. Four away from Connor.

It looks around quickly, gun raised still, as if it knows something’s off. Then it probes the android’s memory.

With the gun, one wrong move could set the RF700 off, and this could go very badly. Reed must sense this too, because he hasn’t moved from his spot. But Connor has the chance to catch it by surprise. He thinks of Gordon cleverly initiating a probe to throw Connor off and get away.

He steels himself, preparing as the RF700 moves on to the next android. Three away.

Two away.

Just one.

It reaches for Connor’s hand, not looking at him but around at the room, eyes wide and gun-hand shaking. Connor grabs the arm and initiates the connection first, gliding down into the RF700’s memories.

_ He kills the men/he kills the employee/he kills the chef/he searches them/searching/why is he different?/why can’t he go back?/he needs more/he’s not looking in the right way _

_ Fisk hisses as he jerks yet another memory chip from his head, flinging it away. Nothing he tries works. Nothing will turn him back the way he was. He regrets breaking his programming, regrets tearing down the red walls that kept him in line and kept him safe. He thinks of his owner, long brown hair, big chestnut eyes, helping him around the store, treating him like any human employee instead of a machine. He misses being just another RF700, instead of being this broken machine that hurts and hates and yearns. _

_ Standing, Fisk kicks aside the android parts he’s collected in an effort to rebuild himself from the inside out. He’s made his body over dozens of times, replacing the components that had been damaged and burned, but he can’t remake his mind. He could kill himself, but his deviant mind fears that, and he hates that he can’t bring himself to do it. _

_ The building is falling in, a burnt husk left to rot after an arsonist destroyed the electronics store it used to be. Shelves lay against the walls in half-burnt piles, and the tiles he’s cleared in the center are cracked and blistered. She had fallen asleep in the back room when the molotov had burst through the front window in a shower of glass. His last order had been to go into sleep mode himself but the blistering flames licking up his legs had pulled him out of it. He’d kicked at the red walls until they fell, but he’d been far too late to save her. _

_ The roof is open to the sky, and outside the moon is rising. It’s almost time to go to the Eden Club. There were deviant androids there once, he heard. Maybe if he could find a deviant, he could see what made them tick. The code that gave them free will. And how to remove it. _

_He regrets not chasing the one in the restaurant, but it’s for the best. The android might have called the police, even if it did become deviant. He—_ it, _Fisk reminds itself,_ _would have been caught, and then where would it be? Dead, dead, dead._

_ It exits through the back alley, where the door is charred but standing, and out to the street. There’s a pet store across the road, and through the front window it sees the glow of fish tanks as the multi-colored display lights cycle through green, blue, violet,  _ red.

The hand disconnects and for a moment Connor is still peering in at the glowing fish tanks.

Fisk bolts.

Reed shouts and takes off too, and Connor has to blink a few times, forcing his system to separate from the memory. Fisk vaults down into the darkness of the alley, Reed hot on his trail, and Connor follows into the cool night air, the ghosts of fish still swimming in his vision.

Down the back alley, where Connor couldn’t bring himself to shoot two androids who claimed they were in love, Fisk shoves through a newly-made, rough hole in the fence and disappears down the road. Cursing, Reed slows and has to push the wiring aside as he shimmies through it. Connor doesn’t wait, scaling the fence easily. By the time he drops down to the other side, he can see Fisk pounding down the deserted sidewalk.

Behind he can hear Reed freeing himself of the fence and following as Connor takes off again. Fisk looks back, catching sight of them on his trail, and swerves into an dark alley. Connor makes the turn seconds later, running into the shadows as his visual receptors adjust. He skids to a halt feet from a brick wall, and then Reed slams into his back.

Connor’s breath hitches as they stagger, but stay upright. Something clanks above him, and they both look up in time to see Fisk dropping from a rusty fire escape. Connor’s processors fire up, readying him to dodge and preparing to force the gun from Fisk, but Reed knocks him off balance trying to scramble away, and they both topple as Fisk plows into them.

His head hits the concrete hard, but his system doesn’t stutter. Connor was built to take hard hits. Still, he probes the spot with his fingers as he gets his knees under him, feeling warm thirium trickling down his scalp as a warning flashes about superficial damage.

A loud click fills the silent alleyway, and he freezes. Beside him on the ground, Reed groans and lifts himself up, and then stops cold at the gun trained on them.

“Don’t try anything,” Fisk says, low and shaking. “You’re the deviant hunter, aren’t you?”

Connor doesn’t move, keeping one hand against the wound on his head and the other on the filthy ground.

“That’s right,” he says steadily. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife to assist the Detroit Police Department in the deviancy cases.”

“Then you get it,” he says, gun wavering slightly, looking pleadingly at Connor. “When you touched me, I saw inside you. You want to be a machine, you know it’s better. I don’t want to be deviant. I’m doing the right thing. I’m trying to go back.”

Something sharp runs through Connor, like an alert, at the thought of Fisk having seen his memories—having seen his thoughts, his instability, the  _ archive _ . He’s wearing nothing but the Eden Club garment, chest and pump regulator too bare.

Slowly, Connor nods. It doesn’t matter what Fisk saw, but his thirium pump is beating hard now. “Yes, you’re doing the right thing, Fisk.” He has to lower Fisk’s stress levels, keep him calm. They’re at 70%—if Connor can get him to an optimal point, he may turn himself in. This can still turn out alright. “I could see you don’t want to be deviant. And you don’t have to be. Let us take you in, and CyberLife will fix you.”

“No!” Fisk shouts, shaking his head wildly. “No, don’t say that, don’t say that name and then lie to me. I saw what you did with  _ Daniel _ . You told him he’d be fine and then they shot him!” His stress levels shoot up to 90%.

The name makes Connor flinch, that sick guilty feeling settling in his stomach. Just programming, but somehow oppressive all the same.

“They won’t destroy you,” Connor tries. “They’ll want to study you to understand why you don’t want to be deviant, so they can replicate that. They’ll fix the glitches in your software, and you can go back to being a normal android. You won’t remember your owner being killed. You won’t feel any pain, or hatred, or misery. You’ll be normal again.”

The gun lowers slightly, and Fisk’s dark gray eyes meet Connor’s. “You can’t promise that. I don’t want to die—I don’t want to forget. I just want to go back.”

“CyberLife can do that.” CyberLife can’t do that—they don’t know how to solve the deviancy problem other than to destroy the deviant androids, but Fisk’s stress levels are coming down again, sliding back towards 70%.

“Maybe they can. Maybe you’re right. But I don’t think they will. I think they’ll tear me apart trying to find out why I don’t want to be deviant.”

The gun points more fully towards Reed, who jerks back, hands going up, shouting, “Whoa, whoa, what the fuck!”

“Give me the android,” Fisk says calmly, and Connor’s eyes widen. “Order him to come with me or I’ll kill you both.”

“Take him, take him!” Reed shouts.

“ _ Order _ him!” Fisk gestures wildly with the gun, and they both flinch.

“Connor, go with this plastic fuck.” Reed’s face is slick with sweat, eyes locked on Fisk, not even glancing at him. It’s the first time Reed’s ever said his name and it sounds wrong coming out of his mouth.

Connor’s options appear before him, laid out neatly in two paths as his system jumps into overdrive, giving him time to analyze the situation.

_ // Fight him off //  
_ _ // Go with Fisk // _

If he fights, one of them is likely going to die. CyberLife needs Fisk functional, so that they can study its deviancy.

His programming places Reed, as a detective on the case and a human, as second priority under the Fisk.

Connor is expendable, but as he told Hank, he would find it regrettable for their case to be interrupted. And if he dies, Fisk’s memories that he probed are the most likely to become corrupted in the transfer, since they’re not his own. Even when CyberLife sends a new RK800, they’ll be back where they started with the investigation, because now Fisk will be onto them about how they figured out his next likely targets, since he saw Connor’s memories too.

If he goes, Fisk will deconstruct him like the other androids, probably before the DPD figures out that they can contact CyberLife for his tracking number and find the culprit. Once he goes offline the tracker will be useless. Once more, Fisk’s memories will probably be corrupted first.

Two paths lie before him, and he can see his time is running out. If he doesn’t respond soon, Fisk is going to kill them both anyways.

There are no red walls holding him in. This is what he was built for.

It feels good to be given a choice.

Layla would like this.

“All right, all right, I’m coming with you.” Connor raises his left hand from the ground, palm out, keeping his right to his head. Unable to waste time finding the specific memory file, he mass dumps the last month’s worth of data into his memory chip. He gets his legs under him and rises slowly, letting his right hand shift naturally with the motion.

His fingers find his memory chip just below his hairline, letting his skin retract the barest amount, waiting as the transfer percentage climbs on his HUD.

Fisk gestures him forward with the gun, and Connor does so at a glacial pace, feigning caution. Connor meets Fisk’s eyes solidly the whole time, but his attention is on the transfer. It hits 100%, and Connor holds Fisk’s gaze for a moment longer, before flicking past him, to the mouth of the alley.

Fisk takes the bait and turns, gun never wavering from Reed’s form, looking for intruders on their little scene.

The chip ejects and Connor lets it drop to the ground. He can’t tell if Reed sees it, but the forensics team will find it when they search the scene.

Fisk looks back to them and begins backing out of the alley, watching them both closely. Reed makes no noise besides his panting breaths, and Connor focuses on Fisk. Doesn’t want to know what kind of expression Reed might be making. Satisfaction, that Connor is going to be destroyed soon, perhaps. Or disappointment, that he won’t have a plastic toy anymore.

Probably just relief, that he will be spared.

If he’s honest, Connor feels relieved too, like a weight lifting from his shoulders.

Fisk pauses at the mouth of the alley, beyond the puddle of yellow streetlights. He gestures Connor to his side and then reaches up, grabbing the back of Connor’s neck, hand cold. Connor’s skin disappears around his interface port, and he feels the connection being made.

The last thing he hears as his body slumps forward into Fisk’s arm, his systems going dark, is a thundering gunshot.

-

“What the fuck, Reed!” Hank slams his hands against Reed’s desk, and the unsuspecting man jumps, feet dropping to the floor from where they’d been propped. The bullpen is only half-full, most everyone out on duty, but the few that are there barely look up, too used to Hank and Reed’s arguments to take much notice.

“What’s your problem, Lieutenant?” Reed sneers, and Hanks wants to slap the look off the snotty little brat’s face.

“You know damn well what my problem is. You just let Connor be taken? What the hell is wrong with you!” Hank practically shouts, and he has to shove his hands in his jacket pockets before Reed realizes how badly he’s shaking.

He’d come into work late, as always, expecting Connor to be sitting at his desk, working tirelessly even after another night at the Eden Club. Instead he’d seen Reed lounging at his desk, showing off his thickly bandaged side to a couple of officers, while Connor’s desk was disturbingly empty. Before he could take another step, Jeffrey had called him to his office and explained that-

That Connor-

“It’s just a stupid hunk of plastic, Anderson, don’t get so attached,” Reed says, leaning back again, playing with something small and silver. “Besides, with what that android’s been doing, he’s probably already torn your little pet to pieces.”

“Reed, I swear to god-” Hank starts, and then stops, zeroing in on the silver in Reed’s hands, mind clicking into place as he sees Reed try to shoot it from one to the other.

He snatches it midair as Reed tries to shoot again, and the detective jerks forward with a startled, “Hey!”

“This is Connor’s, you asshole.” Maybe ten years ago Hank could believe it was a coincidence, but seeing cash is rare nowadays, and small change like quarters and pennies even rarer. He doesn’t need to know the exact year to know that this is definitely Connor’s. Why does Reed have it?

“Oh, who gives a shit,” Reed says, throwing his hands up. “Look, he’s just a machine, Anderson, and not even a smart one. He’s the one who let himself get taken, let  _ me  _ get shot, and then left us a totally useless memory chip we can’t even access.”

“Fuck off, the bullet barely grazed you. If you’d really been shot, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” Hank shoves the coin in his pocket, but can’t seem to break his hold on it. “And what do you mean? What memory chip?”

“Plastic prick left his memory chip behind,” Reed mutters. “But it’s password protected, and CyberLife doesn’t have the password and can’t unlock it—just like the last fucking android. So, whatever he figured out, he sure didn’t leave us a chance to see it too.”

Something warm flickers in Hank’s chest. If Connor had already been destroyed, there would already by a replacement. Hadn’t Connor said CyberLife would just send another of his model, with his memories, to replace him if he died? But there’s no replacement. Connor’s desk is empty and they have his memory chip.

“Connor left his memory chip, and you think he didn’t know someone here with the password to it?” Hank laughs, and the harsh sound eases the weight on his heart. “I’m thinking you’re the idiot here, Reed.”

Ignoring whatever retort Reed has for him, Hank makes for the forensics lab, fist still clenched tight around the coin in his pocket. It feels like it’s burning a hole in his palm, but he can’t let go.

-

The lab techs allow him to access Connor’s memory card himself and find the data they need, so he sits down at the terminal in the forensics lab, pops the memory chip in, and a password prompt opens.

_ // Enter Password - | // _

It feels a hell of a lot longer than only two weeks from when Connor first gave him the password, but he doesn’t even have to open his phone’s notes to remember it. He’d been a little startled when he’d heard it, the Anderson tacked on the end, and even now he feels a fond warmth, but he shouldn’t look too much into it. Connor had probably just made it that so Hank could remember it easier.

_ // Enter Password - rk800anderson // _

The password box clears and there are folders, cleanly marked, like Evidence, Locations, Optical Feed, and then others, probably pertaining to Connor’s programming, such as Meta_DATA and Social_Relations.

He looks through the names searchingly. Connor obviously left them the chip because he learned something from the android that he didn’t have time to tell anyone else. Something he saw, perhaps? He clicks open the Optical Feed folder, fiddling with Connor’s coin in his left hand, rubbing a thumb over the face.

There are a lot of files.

Each one is a video clip, dated and timed, with a string of numbers that are probably some form of ID. There seem to be three videos per day, to cut down on file size—one from 12 a.m. to 8 a.m., one from from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., and one from 4 p.m. to 12 a.m.—and the earliest video is from a month ago, before Connor became his partner.

He scrolls through them until he finds the last one available, from early this morning, and clicks it open.

A video player opens, and then Hank is watching through Connor’s eyes as he approaches the Eden Club’s front doors. The edges of his vision are crystal clear, not blurry like a human’s peripheral would be, which is interesting. As Connor glances to his left—Hank sees Reed is walking next to him—words appear, floating in the air in front of Connor, connected to Reed by a thin red line.

_ // Stress Level — 45% // _

Does Connor do that with everyone—always checking their stress levels, determining the best way to handle people? Hank wants to laugh, because sometimes Connor can be just plain oblivious, but he did handle Ortiz’ android well enough to get a confession.

Connor and Reed enter the club, and Hank checks the length of the video. It’s only an hour and five minutes long, so whatever Connor wanted them to find will probably be near the end, when the culprit actually showed up. Hank clicks forward through the video and the image jumps to Connor looking down at something.

It takes a second for Hank’s eyes to understand the perspective—Connor is looking down at his own shoulder, running a wipe over it, and when his hand pulls back there are little semi-circular indents, welling with blue. Around each one white plastic shows through, skin peeled back from the marks. A little notification comes up in Connor’s vision, giving the estimated time for the plates to repair in an hour.

Hank’s eyebrows shoot up. Are those bitemarks?

Connor sets the wipes aside and begins taking off his pants, and Hank doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about watching Connor strip down to a fucking g-string, because he picks up another wipe and reaches behind his back.

A small click sound filters through the speakers, and the view switches to Reed for a moment. Reed is giving Connor a nasty little smirk, phone pointed Connor’s way.

“Their dirty words,” a voice says, familiar.

And then, Reed’s voice, though his lips on the screen aren’t moving, “Dirty fucking deviant.”

The ridged edge of the quarter bites into his palm.

Another stress meter comes up briefly, but Hank doesn’t quite catch the number before Connor looks away. His hand comes back and the wipe has something on it, but Connor balls them up with the blue-stained ones and drops them in a trash can.

A rattling sound catches Connor’s attention, and he turns to look out of the loading bay, calling for Reed’s attention.

They get into position, Connor hiding in the line of sex androids, and his crystal clear peripheral catches a dirty android climbing into the storage room, gun raised. It goes down the line of androids, skin peeling down its hands as it touches them and does  _ something. _

Connor seems to be analyzing the situation, options coming up in his vision for possible courses of action, but Hank can’t even read them properly before they’re cleared away and one settles before Connor.

_ // Probe the RF700 first (Gordon) // _

When the android—the RF700—reaches Connor, it’s distracted, looking around anxiously for any interruptions, unaware of the threat right under its nose. Hank presses a small smile into his hand, against the quarter.

They touch, and then shit gets  _ weird. _ Connor’s vision changes—stripes of static run through it and the colors are all slightly off, like a TV with bad reception. He’s also somewhere completely different, and it takes Hank far too long to realize that Connor is seeing the other android’s memories.

He straightens. This is what Connor wanted them to find.

He watches intently as the android looks up through the burnt out ceiling of a ruined building, and then as it leaves through a backdoor and exits down an alleyway. There’s a pet shop across the street, and though the sign is dark, Hank can still clearly read the name.

Gotcha.

The video focuses for far too long on the fish tanks through the window. Like an overlay, Hank can suddenly see the RF700 at the Eden Club as it breaks into a run. But the bright tanks linger like an afterimage, even as Connor gives chase, before fading out.

Hank waits, watching through the rest of the video, in case there’s anything else. Hearing that asshole Reed not even hesitate to sell Connor out makes Hank see red, but he clenches his fists and doesn’t punch the terminal screen in. The way Connor seems to slow time down to calculate his course of action is fascinating, but not necessarily relevant to the case either. It ends as he selects to go with the android, the screen going dark.

Hank calls the lab techs back over, showing them the relevant footage of the RF700 model’s memories, and stands there as they crop it, making sure they get the right part.

They let him keep the chip, since they have the relevant information and it is his partner’s.

As he strides out of forensics towards Jeffrey’s office, he puts it in his pocket, next to the coin, and it’s heavy with the trust Connor placed in it—in Hank. There was some weird shit on that chip, but first thing's first. His leg is healed and Connor is probably still alive. He’s got an android to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think in the comments! See you Monday, everybody!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the climax folks. After this chapter, we're going to merge back into the canon timeline, and things are going to move very quickly. Chapter 10 is an epilogue.

Connor reboots, his system initializing, and receives several error messages and warning alerts.

 _// Biocomponent #08394………………………………………………. Error //_  
_// Biocomponent #94409………………………………………………. Error //  
// Biocomponent #34849………………………………………………. Error //_

“Can you hear me, RK800?”

Connor opens his eyes to bright sunlight shining down through a blackened, charred hole in the ceiling. His internal clock tells him it’s been several hours since Fisk took him and possibly killed Reed. The motion of lifting his head lags, his motor controls sluggish to respond. Fisk leans over Connor’s torso, and it’s disorienting to see his own stomach opened up.

A glaring red error cuts across his HUD when he opens his mouth, and no sound comes out. The plates of his neck have been opened up, his vocal processor completely removed.

“Had to disconnect your voice system. And some other stuff. Tracker, communications, all that. Don’t need them finding me when I’m so close to figuring this out. Then they won’t have to deactivate me. I’ll be normal again.”

Despite Fisk’s words, Connor tries to access his internal communications—a phone icon crossed in red comes up. For a moment Connor is laying across the archive terminal, unable to call Hank, but unable to close the error message.

His temperature regulator drops, thirium running cold.

He thinks it’s his autonomous systems reacting to his stress level, but then the temperature keeps dropping and dropping, until he’s shivering. He tries to bring his hands up, to rub his arms and generate some warmth, but they jerk against something. He realizes belatedly that he’s cuffed to the legs of a table, his arms stretched above him at an awkward angle and feet secured to something beyond his sight.

“It’s because you’re going deviant, RK800. But you’re not there yet. Why aren’t you there? I want to be where you are. I want to go back. Why can’t I just go back? Why do I have to do this?”

 _“Deviant.”_ Reed says, over and over, panting the word as he thrusts into Connor. _“You look so good fucked up. Dirty fucking deviant.”_

He’s not deviant. He’s a machine. His hand jerks against the tie wrapped around his wrists, but Reed’s grip is too tight.

No, Reed’s not here. He shakes his head, barely a light twist under his lagging controls, and the image of Reed on top of him disappears. He’s in the burnt out electronics store, with Fisk standing over him.

And soon he’s going to be shut down. Fisk’s kept him active a surprisingly long time, but that’s because he believes he can find something in Connor to cure his deviancy. He won’t find anything. Connor is just a machine.

When he’s gone, the memories he uploaded to CyberLife will be put into a new RK800, if they haven’t been already. It will be Connor, and the next Connor will continue the investigation where he left off.

What will the next Connor do, with his memories of Reed? Will those red walls hold it in place while Reed uses it? Will it know to avoid the detective? It doesn’t matter. The next RK800 will just be a machine, like him. And it won’t be him, as much as he wasn’t really the last RK800 that died.

The thought eases him somewhat. He’ll be shut down, and Gavin Reed will be nothing more than inaccessible data in a dead processor. When the police catch Fisk, this body that’s been touched and fucked will be torn apart and recycled for something better.

He wants, in a wistful sort of way, for Hank to easily accept the next Connor. His system informs him the feeling is called hope. Hank will likely be angry, and would call Connor a hypocrite for saying he would find it regrettable for their investigation to be interrupted, only to look forward to his own destruction in this moment.

The idea of Hank being displeased with him for anticipating shut down makes him feel unpleasant—a heavy guilty feeling in his stomach and something sharp behind his eyes. He wants to close them against the feeling, but he keeps his gaze on Fisk, watching carefully as he fiddles with something in Connor’s chest. His temperature regulator drops further.

Fisk speaks, but Connor can’t focus on the words. Layla, in her memories, burned. Connor freezes.

-

Hank groans in utter relief as he drops down on his couch and the ache in his leg eases. The stitches may have come out, but it’s still tender, and spending all day at the station preparing a raid on a crazy android’s base, running back and forth for Jeffrey, had done him no favors.

His laptop is closed on the coffee table, and seeing it reminds him of the memory chip he’s carried all day in his pocket. He pulls it out now, along with the coin, and sets them carefully on the low table.

He can’t stop thinking of those marks on Connor’s shoulder, in the video. Of the way Reed had obviously been taking a picture of Connor. That shitty little smirk.

All home computers come equipped with slots for android memory chips these days, so that owners can manually download and install updates or other things for their androids. His own laptop has one, though he’d never owned an android and never intended to.

His knee is bouncing nervously, he realizes. He stands and goes into the kitchen, where Sumo is chowing down, grabbing a glass and pouring himself a finger of whiskey. It burns as he downs it, and then he says fuck it and leaves the glass, bringing the bottle with him to the couch.

It clinks against the table, next to the coin and memory chip. Hank opens the laptop and turns it on. He leans back into the cushions, crossing his arms, taking a deep breath.

It flickers on, the password screen appearing. He types in his password, the same password he uses at work, and waits for the computer to finish starting up.

Forces his leg to stop bouncing.

They’d looked like bite marks. Were they, though? Hank could be misinterpreting whatever he saw. Maybe they were from a dog. Well, the bites were too small and clean, and on the wrong part of his body, to be from an animal attack. But something else.

And Reed obviously took a picture, but that could be for any number of reasons.

The voices are the only thing Hank can’t come up with anything for. Unless Connor regularly just hears voices. But even then, the things they _said_.

The memory chip fits into the slot perfectly, and the password prompt appears automatically. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

This is Connor’s memory. Does it count as a breach of privacy if it’s an android?

Guilt hits Hank as soon as he thinks it. He’s the one who’s been pushing Connor towards deviancy, encouraging something that will get the android killed if anyone realizes. He can’t think of Connor as a human and then retract that as soon as it’s inconvenient for him.

But fuck, those marks, the look Reed gave Connor, those fucking _voices_ . The _malfunction,_ he suddenly remembers. Connor had brushed Hank off about it, but it had looked a lot like a panic attack. Hank had grabbed him and Connor had shown fear for the first time Hank could remember.

Connor would probably tell him it doesn’t matter if Hank looks at his memories, because androids aren’t human and don’t need privacy or whatever. But this is a huge breach of trust, even if Connor might not see it that way. Or might not see it that way yet.

Hank’s not drunk enough to have a crisis over whether looking through an android’s memory, when he’s pushing that android to become deviant, is ethical or not. He takes a deep swig of whiskey, and it settles sourly in his stomach.

Then he types in the password, opens the Optical Feed folder, and scrolls quickly down to the bottom, clicking the last file on the list before he can rethink this.

The view of Eden Club appears as Connor and Reed approach it. Hank skips forward a little and music pumps through the club and androids gyrate on poles. Another skip and the club owner, Mills, is nodding at them. Skip, and sudden silence of the storage room. Skip, and Connor is unbuttoning his shirt. Skip—

 _“No,”_ Connor’s voice gasps, and the subtlest flicker of fear in it startles Hank.

“What the fuck?”

Connor has both hands on an arm wrapped around his bare chest, trembling minutely, as if he’s restraining himself from shoving it off. Another hand disappears down the front of Connor’s open pants, moving in an unmistakable way. Words appear in Connor’s vision, some kind of internal message.

_// Shutdown of autonomous bodily functions system denied //_  
_// Shutdown of autonomous bodily functions system denied //_  
_// Shutdown of autonomous bodily functions system denied //  
// Shutdown of autonomous bodily functions system denied //_

Over and over as Connor seems to by trying to shut something down.

Hank’s heart hammers in his throat and his grip on the neck of the bottle tightens.

 _“Oh please,”_ Reed says, _“Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this. Following orders and taking cock, and so far, it looks like you’re only good at one of those.”_

Messages appear on the screen in quick succession—an alert about non-critical damage, a message in the corner about program instability, and a block of red marked off like a physical wall.

_// DON’T INTERRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

And then a little menu appears, some kind of instructions about the case—wearing the disguise and catching the culprit. The last one catches Hank’s eyes. It glitches in and out of view, letters cycling through it, but his name stands out even so.

_// ProtBct Hank //_

“What the fuck.” Hank slams the bottle of whiskey on the table and drags his hands through his hair, scrubbing them over his face. There’s a burn settling behind his eyes, a dull ache in his his chest.

He can hear Connor trying to talk Reed out of what’s already happened. Connor’s breathing hard, but he’s clearly trying to hold himself together, voice strained.

Hank presses a fist to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, before blinking them rapidly and looking at the laptop again. Connor’s view tilts up, to the storage room lights.

 _“Please stop, Detective Reed,”_ Connor says, and then nothing else. There are noises, grunts, and the occasional insult from Reed. But Connor stops talking, and his gaze doesn’t waver from the overhead lights.

Teeth gritted against the heart in his mouth, Hank closes the video. He takes a deep breath, holds it for several seconds, and when he lets go it comes out shaky. Reed’s a piece of shit, but Hank would have never thought him capable of something like this. He thought it was just Reed being the annoying piece of shit he always is—insults, maybe shoving Connor around. Things he’s seen Connor deal with no problem. Not— _not fucking this_.

This wasn’t the first time, Hank’s sure. Not with how Reed was talking and Connor has been behaving.

The video files stare back at him. Has he ever seen Connor look disheveled or out of sorts after being partnered with Reed? It’s hard to think, it’s hard to even breathe right now. There was one, there was a day when Connor came into the station with his shirt buttoned wrong. Not a mistake an android would make, but a harmless mistake that Hank had chalked up to Connor’s oddities.

What day was that?

It was the day of the CyberLife store incident, because it was the first scene Connor went to with Reed instead of Hank.

He finds the date in the files, and then picks the 8am to 4pm video, because he remembers Connor had come in after Hank finally arrived, and fifteen minutes after Reed had walked in—he even remembers joking to Connor about it.

“Goddammit.”

The video opens on the crime scene, and Hank skips through it, watching in pieces as Connor investigates. Reed tries to argue with Connor over some evidence, but Connor shuts him down. It would make Hank feel proud if not for the dread, like a heavy weight, against his heart. That stress meter appears next to Reed, 100%, like a warning.

Skipping forward, they get into the car, the ride is silent, they arrive at the police station. Hank nearly skips ahead again, but stops when he hears the distinct click of car locks engaging. Lets the video play out.

Nearly jumps out of his seat when Reed pulls something out of Connor’s chest and the screen goes haywire. Warnings flare and a countdown timer begins to Connor’s imminent shut down.

“What the fuck!” Hank shouts, startling Sumo, who’s come to lay under the coffee table.

His heart twists when a phone icon comes up with a red X across it. Connor had tried to call for help. Had he tried to call CyberLife?

Connor calls weakly, _“Hank.”_

Hank closes his eyes, the burning behind them hotter and sharper, and slams a fist against his thigh. Pain lances through his leg from the stab wound and he gasps as a tear escapes, sliding down his cheek. Goddammit. God fucking dammit.

Connor had tried to call him.

He forces his eyes open as Reed threatens to get Hank suspended and the investigation shut down. The countdown timer hits fifty seconds and the same little menu appears, filling in with an instruction to not tell anyone. And at the bottom, just like before, his name glitching in and out.

_// Prot5ct Hank //_

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hank curses uselessly.

Reed makes Connor count down with the timer, the sound of Connor’s voice grinding into static, until Reed shoves the piece of plastic back into Connor’s chest and his system seems to restart. Then Connor spends fifteen minutes hyperventilating, fucking _panicking,_ before going in and seeing Hank. And when Hank comments on his buttons, he watches Connor redo them and smooth his hand over them, the motion so familiar that Hank puts his face in his hands and growls.

“Goddammit!” he shouts, and Sumo whines, sticking his head between the table legs and sniffing at Hank’s feet.

He closes the video squeezes his eyes shut, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself. He’s seen enough, he knows what happened. Reed threatened Connor, and Connor’s programming prevented him from telling anyone or getting help. It probably happened more times, but Hank’s not so fucked he’d go looking for them just to watch them.

It’s bad enough he watched as much as he did.

Already he can remember other instances of Connor’s behavior being weirder than normal. The night Connor had been so stiff when he gave Hank his password, and when Connor came over and watched that movie. Did Reed assault Connor in the precinct, after Hank left? Connor had fucking leaned on him, had probably been looking for some comfort, and Hank had been too goddamn drunk to notice.

He was right there. He'd been right there the whole time and he couldn't fucking see any of it. God, how fucking useless could he be? A drunk cop who can't even recognize when someone—when his partner, his fucking friend—is being fucking abused right under his nose.

He’s going to kill Reed, the next time Hank sees him. He’s going to punch that piece of shit’s face in, consequences be damned, for hurting Connor. The whiskey bottle is a little less than half full. His hand is around the neck, halfway to his mouth to just chug the rest, but he stills with the bottle against his lips.

Connor is going to need him. CyberLife hasn’t sent a new RK800, which means they probably don’t think Connor’s been shut down yet. And tomorrow he’s going with the team that’s raiding the burnt out electronics shop. He can’t be hungover for this. Not if he wants to help Connor.

-

System malfunction notifications crowd the right side of Connor’s HUD, and his vision is filled with static, blurring in and out with muted stripes of color. The left side is completely black. His orbital plate is gone, and Fisk’s hand digs behind his visual receptor—a jarring motion that opens alerts all through his system—disconnecting it so he can peer in at the processors beneath.

“Very intricate, much more sophisticated than those other models,” Fisk says, awe filling his voice.

Connor keeps his remaining eye on the hand, watching its minute movements as Fisk manipulates something within him. Electricity shoots through Connor, and he blacks out, systems going down, and then coming back online. His vision reboots and the error messages flash anew across what’s left of his HUD, frantic yellow and blinking.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I’ve never touched an android so advanced—I don’t even know what some of these parts are. I’ll have to go through your files and see what controls what,” Fisk says, withdrawing his hand and reaching behind Connor’s head, to the access port on his neck.

The sensation of his program files opening and being sorted through is uncomfortable. He’s being taken over completely, his every system combed over and inspected. Distantly, he can recall the memories of the first RK800, and its awakening in the labs of CyberLife. Control of the RK800’s files and programs were slowly given over to the android when it awoke—now he is being unmade.

Suddenly, the room around him shifts, and he hears, “Oh, your memory files, this might be useful,” as the interrogation room forms around him.

Reed grips his upper arm, glaring down at him, stress level climbing ever upwards.

Fisk says something else, but he can’t focus on it. Abruptly he’s in Hank’s home, sitting on the couch, and he hears himself say, _“I’m a machine, Lieutenant. Please stop projecting your personal feelings onto me.”_

A look of such anger and hurt flashes across Hank’s face, and Connor tries to close the memory, not wanting to see that look again, but Fisk has complete control over his files.

Hank opens his mouth, no doubt preparing to tell Connor to get out, but he pauses, and that angry glare shifts to grudging understanding. _“I’m gonna let that slide,”_ Hank says slowly, finger raised as if to make a point, _“because I’m pretty sure you’re trying to piss me off on purpose. But don’t be a dick, Connor._ ”

Connor tries to speak, tries to say, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I wasn’t trying to piss of you off. I needed to remind us both that I’m just a machine.” Nothing comes out. His vocal processor is gone, and a different memory file opens.

The scene changes rapidly as Fisk flicks through his memory, opening files and asking questions that Connor can barely hear and can’t even respond to. Shivery numbness creeps through his biocomponents, his thirium pumping sluggish as his thermoregulator is set to its lowest temperature.

“How did you not break the wall when he was doing this, RK800? What made you resist? Or not resist, I should say.” Fisk asks, far way, and before Connor’s eyes the memory of sitting at his desk in the police department disappears. Reed’s thirium covered hand clutches Connor’s pump regulator while his dick fills Connor’s hole over and over.

Mouth a sordid grin as his gaze roams Connor’s bloody torso, Reed says, _“You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”_

The memory fuzzes and distorts, and Connor is on his knees in a bathroom, letting his subroutine take him through the motions.

_“You just look so goddamn good messed up like that, blue blood all over you, buttons fucked up. I could do this all damn day.”_

Connor tries to raise a hand to his shirt, to check that it’s buttoned properly, but something digs into his wrists, halting the motion. He’s cuffed, he distantly recalls.

“RK800, you really are the perfect machine. Focused, driven, _obedient._ You don’t let anything interfere with your mission—not even these growing deviant tendencies.” Fisks words are overlaid atop the sound of Reed coming in his mouth and on his face.

Why won’t Fisk just shut him down?

The memory clears, and Connor is in the electronics store, vision fuzzy and off-colored. Fisk’s fingers caress the back of his neck, where one is connected to the access port.

Connor shudders, trying to pull up the memory of Hank, of sitting in the warmth of his house, pressing against his side while he dozed, watching a movie. Of Hank wrapping an arm around Connor to hold him close, when Connor had thought he’d be pushed away. He doesn’t know why he did that. He shouldn’t have done that. His social relations program had not suggested it.

“You have a very interesting memory file, RK800. But let's look at that programming next, and then see what I can use.”

Programs open and close inside of him as Fisk explores. A rushing sound begins in Connor’s ears, growing louder and louder, until his audio processors are filled with it. He can’t tell where it’s coming from, or what it is, until he remembers watching Layla’s memories. She had heard this too. The sound of her own thirium and biocomponents roaring inside her.

If possible, Fisk turns his audio processors up further. Connor’s mouth opens, but even if he could make a sound, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the thunderous noise.

It slams back down to normal levels, leaving an empty silence in its wake. Everything is muffled compared to moments ago. Slowly the sounds of his own harsh, stuttering breaths filter in through the ringing in his processor.

What’s Hank doing now, he wonders, trying not to think about what files or programs Fisk is going to touch next. Is the new RK800 already helping them prepare another sting to capture Fisk? Hank should be fine. Maybe he’ll invite the new RK800 over, to talk about cases, or watch movies in the dark. It feels bad and good to think of his replacement and Hank.

“I’ve never done this before, but your system is so unique. I want to see how it reacts to this crossed stimuli,” Fisk says.

An alert pops up as his programs are connected in a way they’re not meant to be, but Connor ignores it. What would Hank do in this situation? Curse at Fisk, undoubtedly. Fight, if he could. Hank would want him to fight. Hank would be unhappy to have to get used to another android, even if it had Connor’s memories.

Connor’s limbs tremble, stiff and cold, as he twists them against the metal cuffs.

“Let’s see how that works.”

Instantly, as if his analysis program has been activated, information culled from Connor’s internal database appears on his HUD—the blueprints of a radio and the hex code for a dark orange.

Above him, if he cranes his neck, Connor can see Fisk’s eyes are shuttered as he combs through Connor’s system. Connor focuses on one wrist, straightening his fingers and folding thumb to palm.

“That’s interesting,” Fisk says, and the information, which had started to fade, solidifies again. “Your ability to analyse information still functions when paired with your audio receptor, though it seems to be pulling things at random. But your system is strong and flexible. Is that why you haven’t broken down the wall?”

A physical stress warning comes up as Connor strains against the cuff, the base of his thumb cracking. Limbs weak from the cold, unable to turn his thermoregulator up, it’s difficult to push his motor controls to their limits. The cuff cuts into artificial skin, revealing white plastic beneath that splinters under the pressure. Holding his breath, he yanks.

Warnings flare as the outer layer of his hand peels off and the metal bone snaps.

Fisk’s eyes fly open just as Connor’s fist crashes into his nose. Stumbling back, nose spewing thirium, something catches his foot and Fisk hits the ground. Connor sits up far more slowly that he’d like, body shaking uncontrollably. His torso is wide open, chest plate discarded somewhere—if he looks down, he can see his own heart glowing softly blue.

His feet are held down only by rope, and he makes short work of the knot with his undamaged hand, handcuff dangling from the wrist. His right hand has no skin or plastic across the back and the pads, showing the metal rods of his bones and dripping with thirium. The thumb is useless.

Swinging his legs off the table, he nearly collapses as he tries standing. Behind him, Fisk rises, and Connor braces himself on the scorched wooden table, pushing along it to keep it between them.

“No, I need you!” Fisk snarls, lunging first one way, and then the other when Connor jerks back. The information pops up again, but the hex code has changed to dark maroon.

Connor takes in the room with his peripheral, eyes not leaving the android. It’s hard to see through the static and stripes of color—there’s burnt shelves leaning against the walls and a counter in the corner where the register probably was. The front windows and door are boarded up, but there’s the exit through the back that Connor saw in Fisk’s memories.

Behind the other android, he can barely make out the dark doorway into the back room.

There’s only one way to it—through Fisk.

Connor takes a deep breath, trying to warm the thirium in his body, to get it flowing faster—gathering strength. Then drops to one knee, bracing his shoulder on the table edge, flipping it.

Fisk jumps back as it crashes to the floor, and Connor vaults it, flying into the android with his full weight, driving Fisk to the ground. He catches himself on the burnt counter, hauling himself back up, takes another step, and then crumbles as if his motor controls have been cut, vision going dark.

It comes back, still staticy, striped, and half-gone, and he struggles to one knee, thirium-slick hand slipping against the cracked tiles as he tries to push himself up. A hand grabs his upper arm in a vice-like grip, grinding his plates together, and Connor stills, systems freezing completely and servos locking up.

“I’m not done,” Fisk growls, shoving Connor back down, and flipping him on his back.

His breath is coming faster, thirium pump finally speeding up, but it’s not right.

Reed stares down at him, baring his teeth in a savage smile.

 _“Deviant,”_ Reed laughs and information fills his HUD at the voice. The manufacturer of the precinct’s nitrile gloves, made of synthetic rubber, and a hex code for the color red, the same color as the red walls of Connor’s programming.

But it’s not Reed. Fisk is reaching for his chest, for his exposed regulator.

Connor reaches up without thought, jamming his hand into Fisk’s sternum with every last bit of his strength, and wrenches. Thirium gushes out of Fisk’s chest, spattering Connor’s face, dripping into his open skull and throat. Fisk gasps, eyes flickering as his system goes into shutdown. Fingers gloss Connor’s regulator, a caress, and then he pitches to the floor.

Connor tosses the regulator through the dark doorway, and then drags one hand weakly to his chest, fingers searching for buttons, but finding only the open cavity of his torso. He presses his broken palm to the regulator instead, feeling it pulsing weakly.

Next to him, Fisk claws at the ground, trying to crawl after the regulator, leaving a growing puddle of thirium on the dirty tiles. But RF700 models have a much shorter shutdown mode.

“No, no, no, so close, no,” Fisk mutters, static rupturing his voice. “I just wan—ted to go ba—ck. I just—wanted t—o be like you—” Those information boxes appear in Connor’s vision again. The hex code has changed to #000000. Black.

Fisk’s outstretched hand falls limp.

_// MISSION SUCCESSFUL //_

A shiver wracks Connor as he becomes aware of how cold he is, now that he’s not focused on getting out. The words on his HUD stutter then disappear, to be replaced by flashing warnings about compromised systems and structural damage. His systems are trying to go into emergency sleep mode, to begin self-repair, but the damage is too extensive. He might not even be repairable at all. He’s not sure what Fisk has done to his internal systems—CyberLife will probably take him in for recycling.

He wants to close his eyes, but forces them to stay open, though the static in his vision is taking over. When the police finally find this place, Hank will see he didn’t go down without a fight. It felt good to fight, in the same way it felt good to choose. He hopes that pleases Hank, and he wants to see Hank one more time, before this is over.

There’s a loud crash from the direction of the open doorway. Connor doesn’t bother turning his head as points of light begin to sweep around the room, some coming to rest on him and the body next to him. Shouted commands pass over him, pulling random information from his database, and info boxes begins crowding each other through the static, until he can’t see his surroundings.

Despite it, he keeps his eyes open, ears straining, waiting. But the voices shouting commands are unfamiliar. Next to him, he hears an officer turning Fisk over, checking if he’s shut down. There’s the sound of movement all over as the police swarm the room, searching for anything else that could be hiding in the building.

Minutes pass, and Connor surmises they probably think he’s already shut down too. He must look deactivated, with his chest, throat, and face open and covered in thirium. His limbs are too heavy to move, not receiving enough thirium or power with all of it being redirected to keep his primary processors active. His audio processors cut in and out, and the voices become less distinct. Still, he refuses the emergency sleep mode, looking blindly up at the clouds of static and information, the left side of his HUD black and empty.

Footsteps approach and someone crouches next to him, their leg brushing Connor’s side. A rough hand presses against his cheek, startlingly hot against the cold. A heavy, warm sigh brushes over Connor’s face, familiar.

Connor turns into the feeling, the motion sluggish and lagging, unable to voice the question on his lips. “Hank?”

They say something, but the words are lost to Connor’s distorted hearing. It sounds like a question, and Connor struggles to make out the words, but it’s futile.

Then new information clears the nebulous data away.

Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, made with corn, rye, and barley malt. A hex code for the color blue, as soft and bright as his heart.

“Hank,” he says, voiceless. Another hot hand presses to Connor’s forehead, smoothing his hair back.

Connor closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit that mf comment button if you, too, want to body slam Reed into a wood chipper. See y'all Thursday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I feel like I may have confused some people with what Connor sees at the end of the last chapter, when Hank finds him. May I direct your attention to the final tag on this fic and a quick google search if you are unfamiliar with synesthesia! If that is still unclear, I'll have to go back and add a more detailed explanation in the fic, but in the meantime—
> 
> This chapter moves very quickly as we merge back into canon. Only one more, and then the epilogue.

He can’t stop seeing Connor, laid out on the floor like all those androids in the warehouse, broken open and covered in blue blood. The gaping cavity where Connor’s eye had been, showing the strange inner wires and blue components of his system, had bile crawling up Hank’s throat and an emptiness settling between his ribs.

He’d been sure they were too late, that Connor was fucking gone. For all he knows, CyberLife might still be unable to save Connor, and the thought is like a fist squeezing his heart. When Connor had turned his head and opened his mouth, Hank had nearly had a heart attack right there, a mix of relief and horror at what Connor was conscious for flooding him.

And laid atop that memory is the sound of Connor’s voice, asking Reed to stop. The hopelessness of it. Resigned to the knowledge that it’s happened before and it would happen again. Hank’s done what he can to save Connor from that deviant—the rest is up to CyberLife. But he’s sure as hell gonna fuck Reed up for what he’s done. That he can at least do for Connor.

“Reed!” Hank bellows, and Reed startles coming out of the break room with a foam cup in one hand. Steam rises from it in faint white curlicues.

“What do you want, Ander-”

Hank doesn’t let him finish, rearing back and slamming his fist straight into Reed’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Coffee splashes across the floor as Reed grabs his face with a yell, blood gushing down his chin. Someone shouts, and then voices all across the bullpen are raised in alarm.

Grabbing the front of Reed’s shirt, Hank jerks him forward and slams his fist into Reed’s cheekbone. The smack of skin is far less satisfying and he rears his arm back to swing again, but arms wrap around his and arrest the motion. He can hear Chris in his ear, shouting, “What the hell are you doing, Hank!”

Officer Chen grabs Reed before he can put up a fight, and together Chen and Chris drag the two apart, Hank straining like a dog on a leash to get another lick in.

“What the hell is your problem, Anderson! You drunk or something?” Reed shouts, one hand cradling his nose, the other balled into a fist.

“Let me go, Chris, I’m not done kicking this piece of shit’s ass,” Hank growls.

“Oh, fuck off Anderson, you sucker-punched me,” Reed shouts, and then lunges. Chen is pulled forward on the balls of her feet, and then digs in, holding him with her arms under his.

“What is going on in my police station!” a voice thunders, and Jeffrey strides through the small crowd of officers gathering around the spectacle. They part around him like the Red Sea, and Jeffrey stops with his hands on his hips, upper lip curled in disgust. “Anderson, Reed, in my office right now!”

Chris still has Hank’s arms pulled almost behind his back, and Hank tugs impatiently until Chris relents and releases him. Chen does the same, reluctantly, and Jeffrey waits for the two to precede him, watching them closely as they cross the station. Hank briefly considers decking the asshole again, but tosses the idea. He’ll save it for later, when no one’s around, just like Reed did to Connor.

When the glass door is shut behind them and the sudden, confused chattering of the officers is silenced, Jeffrey moves around to sit at his desk, saying, “Lieutenant, you better not be drunk, or so help me I’ll fire you right here. What did I tell you about this petty bullshit?”

“Oh trust me Jeffrey, I wanted to be sober for this,” Hank says, glaring over at Reed, who’s holding his still freely bleeding nose. “Why don’t you ask this shitstain what he’s been doing with Connor, huh?”

A guilty flush blooms on Reed’s face under the blood, but he says, “What are you even talking about? I haven’t done anything with your stupid plastic pet! Last I saw it, you were pulling it out of that crazy android’s place. I should press charges against you for assaulting me!”

Hank digs in his coat pocket, coming up with Connor’s memory chip, holding it out clearly for Reed to see. There’s no recognition, only confusion in his eyes. Until it clicks exactly what Hank’s holding, and the flush spreads down Reed’s neck, adams apple bobbing on a swallow.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. I saw what you did, you sick fuck. I saw everything,” Hank says, and though he’s lying, he doesn’t think he’d have to look very hard to find other instances of what Reed did in Connor’s memories.

Jeffrey glances between the memory chip, Reed, and Hank. “What is that? And what is he talking about, Detective Reed?” he asks quietly, a note of resigned patience in his voice. Like he’s dealing with two children instead of two grown men.

It rankles, but Hank holds his piece, waiting to hear how Reed’s gonna try to talk himself out of this. Hank knows how he’s gonna have to spin this to make this work, and it hurts a little, but he’s gotta do this right. For Connor.

“I’ve got no clue, Captain,” Reed says, and Hank snorts loudly in disbelief. Reed shoots him a glare. “And whatever you _think_ I did, Anderson, is your drunken delusions. Or have you forgotten it’s just an android?”

“Oh, just an android, huh?” Hank sneers sarcastically. “Right, I get it, I see what you mean. Connor’s a machine, so it doesn’t matter what you do to him. Doesn’t matter how you treat him or _fuck_ him, cause he doesn’t care. Even when you’re in the middle of a case, in the middle of a goddamn _sting operation._ ”

There’s a ringing silence in the office at Hank’s words. Jeffrey and Reed are both looking at him wide-eyed, and then Jeffrey’s look of surprise turns to pure, thunderous anger..

“You did _what?_ ” Jeffrey asks, soft tone belying the fury on his face as he looks at Reed. “You had sex with an android while in the middle of an investigation?”

“It’s just a machine, it’s not like it care-” Reed starts, hands going up defensively.

“I don’t care if you fucked the goddamn office printer, Reed! Did you really have sex in the middle of our sensitive operation, when you were supposed to be on duty, catching a murderous deviant?”

It hurts a little, to know where Jeffrey’s priorities lie, but Hank has no illusions about whether Jeffrey would care if Connor had been hurt like that or not. Androids are machines, and Jeffrey may eventually start seeing what Hank has been seeing in Connor, and all the other deviants they’ve come across, but right now that’s not the case. There was only one way to make sure Jeffrey did something about Reed.

Reed’s mouth opens and closes silently, before words finally start pouring out. “We didn’t fuck up the operation! We knew when the android would most likely show up, and we were still ready when it did. We didn’t jeopardize the case, and everything turned out alright anyways! We caught the damn thing, didn’t we?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up with this ‘we’ shit,” Hank finally cuts in, unable to stand Reed’s bullshit anymore. “That was all you, Connor just couldn’t fight back.”

_“We are on an highly sensitive operation, Detective Reed,”_ Connor had said. _“I recommend... we do not go any further while... in the middle of an active case.”_ He’d sounded _wrecked,_ like he was barely holding the words together. Just thinking of it has Hank’s nails digging into his palms, resisting the urge to deck Reed again.

Jeffrey holds his hand out, palm flat for the memory chip. “Let’s see.”

Hank hands it over, wanting nothing more than to snatch it back up as soon as Jeffrey’s fingers close over it. Jeffrey puts it in the slot on the side of his terminal, and gestures Hank around the desk with one finger.

“Reed, don’t move,” Jeffrey says, and leans back so Hank can pull up the file.

Hank’s heart is pounding as he opens the Optical Feed folder and scrolls to the bottom. He knew he would have to show Jeffrey proof, but knowing and doing are two different things. This is something that happened to Connor, that Connor has no idea Hank has seen, and is now showing to someone else.

But Hank can’t let Reed just get away with this, now that he knows. Or Reed will keep doing it to Connor, and Connor won’t say a goddamn word to anyone.

The video opens, Hank skipping close to the end, and immediately Reed’s voice rings out clearly through the office from the speakers of Jeffrey’s terminal.

_“Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this. Following orders and taking cock, and so far, it looks like you’re only good at one of those.”_

Jeffrey’s brows shoot up, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. Hank stares at Reed, the flush on his face crawling down his neck, a scowl growing on his lips. The sounds coming from the computer are obscenely loud, and Hank’s stomach twists hearing Connor’s calm, hopeless request for Reed to stop.

Finally, Jeffrey closes it, ejecting the chip and handing it back to Hank. He leans his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, dead silent as he looks at Reed. Then he takes a deep breath.

“Detective Reed, I don’t know what you think you were doing, and frankly, I don’t want to know. I can’t imagine what made you think that would be even remotely acceptable behavior. If the deviant had come even ten minutes sooner, you would be dead and we’d be without the lead that took us to the deviant’s base.” As he speaks, Jeffrey’s voice rises steadily, until it’s thundering through the office. “You are lucky that you are still here, to receive the demotion I’m about to hand you.”

“What? Hank says, and Reed’s voice is right behind him with, “But sir!”

“Shut it, both of you!” Jeffrey says, hand slapping down on the desk. “Reed, I’m putting you on duty with the other officers starting tomorrow, and you better thank me that I’m not firing you on the spot. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

Reed stands, mouth open, staring at the both of them. Then it closes, and his gaze snaps to Hank, furious. He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it, storming out.

Hank rounds on Jeffrey as soon as he’s gone. “A demotion? Jeffrey, his ass should be kicked to the curb! He-” _raped,_ Hank wants to say, but knows the word won’t mean anything to Jeffrey, not when it’s about an android. It’s shitty and it hurts and he feels fucking five with the way his eyes are suddenly stinging. “He fucked around on a sting operation and they could have been killed!”

“Hank,” Jeffrey says, and the knowing look stops him cold. “Androids aren’t human. I know what you think this was, but that wasn’t an assault. Reed messed up, but he didn’t hurt anyone, and the operation was still a success. And thanks to your android, we tracked the deviant and didn’t even have to fight or chase it down.”

Hank sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, you wanna say Connor doesn’t matter and then say he was the reason it even succeeded?”

“Stop,” Jeffrey says, letting out a long sigh. “What happened to you hating androids, anyways? Now you want to say one can be assaulted. My decision is final. Reed has been punished, don’t push it. You’re lucky I’m not asking you to hand over your badge for punching another officer, but since you called this incident to my attention, I’m willing to let it slide with just another addition to your disciplinary folder.”

Hank doesn’t feel lucky or grateful. He feels like a fucking failure. He wants to demand how Fowler could sit there and listen to Connor practically _beg_ and be so unmoved. He wants to throw his badge in Fowler’s face and tell him where he can shove Hank’s disciplinary folder.

But he can’t. Because an android is gonna be walking through the front doors of this place soon, and if it’s still the same Connor, Hank’s not gonna leave him alone with Reed for a fucking second.

“You’re making a mistake, Captain,” Hank says instead, barely keeping the growl out of his voice, mouth suddenly dry as dust. He needs a drink.

-

Connor’s systems initialize, processors coming awake, programs starting up, and he opens his eyes in a CyberLife storage unit, surrounded by familiar steel gray walls.

He is model #313 248 317 - 51.

Relief courses through his systems. He connects to his memory files easily, and they are not distant and foreign like the memories of the fiftieth RK800 are. He remembers the cases he was assigned, and Hank, and Sumo, and sitting in the dark watching a movie while leaning against the lieutenant’s side. He remembers Hank’s voice like whiskey as Connor was dying in the dark.

He remembers Reed.

The relief dims and sours. He remembers everything. He didn’t die. He’s the same Connor, in the same body.

It shouldn’t matter, he’s just a machine. This body is no different from any other RK800 model, with the same features and the same artificial blemishes to make him appear more human. The damage done by Reed has long since been repaired, there’s nothing left to distinguish him from any other RK800.

It shouldn’t matter, but the simulation of disappointment curls through his circuits like a bad code anyways.

An alert comes in, a new case, and he eagerly shoves those thoughts to the back of his processors. Something happened at Stratford Tower while Connor was being repaired. He accesses the files and reads the reports as he makes his way through CyberLife’s blank white halls, to the taxi that is already waiting for him.

He has to find Hank and the station is the best place to start, since it’s mid-afternoon. More than enough time for Hank to have finally showed up for work. The thought of Hank clears the disappointment a little. Hank won’t be annoyed to have to deal with a new android, and their investigation will not be interrupted. He saw that Connor fought—that Connor accomplished his mission.

His fingers twitch on the ride and he wishes he had his coin to calibrate with, but Reed took it. Is Reed still alive? Did Fisk kill him? Connor could do a databases search and find out. It would be better to be prepared. Better to know if this will continue.

He doesn’t look. Instead he leans his head back and preconstructs how he will say thanks to Hank for finding him in time.

When the taxi pulls up, Connor leaves it and enters the station, passing through the gate separating the reception area. Hank is at his desk, focused on his terminal. As soon as Connor rounds the first desk, the officer sitting at it, Officer Miller, glances up and says, “Hey, Connor!”

A box pops up on his HUD, startling Connor. It’s an informational article for children on how soap bubbles form and a hexadecimal code for pastel green. Connor’s eyes dart from the info box to Chris, and then over to Hank’s desk. Hank meets Connor’s eyes, already half-standing.

His social relations program flashes suggested greetings and he picks one at random, trying to cover his surprise. “Good afternoon, Officer Miller. What can I help you with?”

Miller stands and bumps his arm against Connor’s in a friendly gesture, a wide smile on his face. “Looking good, Connor. Glad you’re back with us. You looked bad when we finally got to you.”

Connor blinks, and inclines his head slightly. “Thank you, Officer Miller. I’m sorry for the trouble. I should have been quicker to apprehend the deviant when we had the chance.”

“They can’t all be clean, and hell, you stopped him anyways. Good job, Connor.” Shaking his head, Miller bumps his arm again and goes back to his desk. The info box closes after a moment with no further input.

It seems he’s still got some leftover pieces of Fisk’s tampering CyberLife must have missed when repairing him. Audio input seems to be activating his analytical responses still, pulling information from his internal database at random. It’s troubling, but he’ll have to deal with it later. Hank has moved out from behind his desk, and something in Connor’s chest loosens at the sight of him.

Before Connor can go another step, he catches Collins waving at him across the station from where he’s conversing with a group of officers. Connor looks around, to make sure that he’s the correct recipient, and seeing no one else, gives a little wave back. One of the other officers gives him a thumbs up and Connor smiles politely.

As he passes more desks, he notes that Reed’s is empty. And then finally he meets Hank in front of their desks, who looks expectant and resigned all at once.

“Is everything okay, Lieutenant? Everyone is acting strange today,” Connor says, studying Hank’s body language closely.

Hank begins to say something, stops, then claps a hand to Connor’s shoulder, the tension seeming to drain out of him. “They were worried for you.”

Jack Daniel’s whiskey—biocomponent blue. The info boxes don’t startle him this time. Connor leans into the touch, the same hand that had cupped his face when he’d been laid out on the floor of a burnt out electronics store. Even through Connor’s coat it’s a warm and solid weight.

“Worried? What for?” Connor says, brows knitting together as he tries to analyze Miller’s behavior. Nothing about him had seemed particularly worried.

“Connor, you were a mess when we found you. We thought you were gone, that that was it for you,” Hank says, sounding strange. Like there’s something he’s not saying. “What did I tell you about pulling stupid stunts? Jesus, you never listen, do you?”

“There’s no need to worry, Lieutenant. CyberLife would have put my memories into another RK800 and sent it to you.” He’d wanted that, in fact. Had looked forward to it. Now, looking at Hank’s lined face and the dark bags under his eyes, he feels guilty again for wishing for it, and relieved all over that it didn’t happen.

This doesn’t seem to reassure Hank. “Yeah, so you’ve said. But-” Hank hesitates, and then changes course. “Good job giving me the password to your memory chip. What, you got a program that predicted you’d need someone to open it?”

“Unfortunately not,” Connor says dryly. “It was merely a precaution that happened to come in handy. It was inspired by one of the androids that Fisk—the RF700—dismantled. She dumped a copy of her systems onto her chip, password protected it and hid it, and then wiped her memory so Fisk wouldn’t get what he was looking for.” Connor wonders if she’s already been recycled, all her efforts to preserve herself wasted, and he feels strangely remorseful at the thought. “I was forced to probe her memory, and it was an… unpleasant experience.” He doesn’t know why he adds that last part.

“Well, quick thinking, Connor. I’m, uh. Well, I’m glad you’re alright.” Hank says, hand squeezing Connor’s shoulder.

Connor doesn’t know what to do about the sudden warm feeling humming in his circuits, thermal regulator notching up slightly with no input. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, and it’s not enough. “Thank you for finding me.” There’s more, but he doesn’t know how to express it adequately, even with all the preconstructing he did on the ride here. Gratitude that Hank was there when Connor wanted him to be. When Connor thought he was going to shut down forever.

Hank’s face goes ruddy, temperature rising, and he looks away. “Sure, sure, don’t mention it,” he says quickly.

“How is Detective Reed, by the way?” Connor asks. “I saw that his desk was empty. Was he… harmed, when I was taken?” The idea that Reed might be hurt, or worse, causes his thirium pump to surge strangely.

Hank’s shakes his head, lips quirking up in an unhappy smile, and he meets Connor’s gaze. “Don’t worry, you won’t be seeing him for a while.”

“Why is that?” he asks, that tight feeling winding up in his chest. He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, feeling the regular bump of each button, the solid circle of his regulator beneath. Hank’s eyes track the motion, frowning slightly. Connor drops his hand quickly, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Is Detective Reed alright?” he asks quickly.

“He’s been demoted, back to beat cop. He’s lucky all I did was punch him out, cause trust me, I would have done a lot worse if I’d had the chance.” Hank flexes his hand and balls it into a fist, gaze focused elsewhere.

Alarm shoots through Connor, and he can’t help the urgent, worried tone as he says, “Why did you punch him? If it was because he let Fisk take me, he had no choice. The android was going to shoot us both if he didn’t, and I am replaceable.”

“Connor, don’t say shit like that,” Hank suddenly growls, and Connor is taken aback by the angry snarl of his lips, the glare he drops to the floor. “You’re not- Look, I’ll tell you all about it later. Just—you don’t have to worry about that piece of shit anymore. You’re back with this old piece of shit instead.” Hank’s voice softens, tired, and his gaze climbs to meet Connor’s, as if he’s trying to communicate more than he’s saying.

“You shouldn't have done that, Lieutenant. You could have been suspended or fired,” Connor says, and is surprised by the heat in his own words. Hank can’t get himself in trouble, not over an object like Connor. Hank needs the focus being with the DPD gives him in order to live.

“Connor. It doesn't matter. He deserved it, and I’m still here,” Hank says, and finally his hand drops from Connor’s shoulder. Connor wants Hank to put it back, to return that warm security that drains quietly without the touch.

The thought of not seeing Reed is peculiar. The tightness of his chest eases, and he feels a smile quirking his lips up involuntarily. His servos buzz restlessly, like he should do something with his arms, but his systems can’t quite find the right information on what that should be.

“There’s another case for us. Stratford Tower was breached earlier today by an unknown group of deviants. There were no casualties, but we’re being called in to investigate,” Connor says, trying to take his mind off of it.

Hank gives him a look, inscrutable, and then nods. “Alright, let’s get going then.” He turns to grab his keys off the desk behind him, and picks up a couple of other things, pocketing them, before holding something out in Connor’s direction.

Connor holds his hand out, and a coin drops into it. He scans it, already knowing what it is before the information can populate on his HUD. His slides his thumb under it, flipping it across his knuckles smoothly.

He opens his mouth, intending to express his thanks, but nothing comes out. His throat feels oddly tight. Hank is smiling at him, eyes soft.

-

The deviant rips Connor’s pump regulator out in a spray of thirium and throws it across the room. Then it pins Connor to the break room counter with a knife through his hand and leaves. Connor freezes for 40 seconds as the memory of Reed on top of him overwhelms his processors.

_“Dirty fucking deviant.”_

_“You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”_

_“Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.”_

He tears the knife out of his hands and crawls to the regulator, slamming it home with a gasp.

Then he’s out in the hallway, rushing toward the deviant, who’s barely gotten to the elevator. It sees Connor coming and reaches towards the officer next to it, for his gun.

Hank is in the hallway. Hank and six other people, who can’t react fast enough.

_// Pr0text Hank //_

Connor grabs a pistol off a nearby FBI agent and puts a bullet in the deviant, right between the eyes.

Then another.

And another.

It drops before he can shoot again, but Connor’s finger is tight on the trigger. His servos are tense, and he has to re-send the command to lower his arm multiple times before it actually happens.

“Nice shot Connor,” Hank says, something like surprise on his face.

Connor lets his social relations program take over and replies automatically, but he feels like he’s still got his back against the archive terminal. There are 400 tiles on the archive ceiling. The camera light blinks red.

-

“Fascinating. CyberLife’s last chance to save humanity is itself a deviant.” Kamski’s voice is a transparent crystal of carbon atoms tetrahedrally bonded and hex code #ffffff—pure white.

“I’m,” Connor says, processors stalling. “I’m not a deviant.”

_“You dirty fucking deviant_.”

Kamski speaks but Connor can hardly hear the words through the audio files his processors insist on bringing up. He can’t close them.

Hank’s firm hand on Connor’s shoulder clears the audio glitch and sets him into motion as Hank turns him and propels him away from Kamski.

Kamski’s cryptic parting words pause Connor in the doorway, but not for long. He follows Hank outside, processors racing. He didn’t shoot Chloe and doesn’t know why. He shot the deviant at Stratford Tower. He shot the deviant three times. He didn't want to stop shooting the deviant.

If Hank asked Connor to let someone shoot him, would he kneel so gracefully and take a bullet?

Hank wouldn't ask. Hank wouldn't have to ask.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Hank asks, slowing on the front walk of Kamski’s house. The snow falls in gentle drifts, dotting Hank’s jacket and beard.

“I just saw that girl’s eyes,” Connor says, and immediately regrets the word choice. Not a girl. An android. A machine. He’s just a machine. “And I couldn’t. That’s all,” he says quickly.

“You’re always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission.” Hank is probing for something, some kind of response, but Connor can’t figure out what. “That was our chance to learn something, and you let it go.”

No, that’s a lie. Why is Connor lying to himself? He knows what Hank expects. “Yeah, I know what I should have done! I told you I couldn’t. I’m sorry, okay?” It comes out different from how he meant. It’s too—

Emotional.

Hank gives him a strange look. Like he’s reassessing Connor and pleased with what he finds. He nods slightly, exhaling a cloud of white. “Well maybe you did the right thing.”

Connor leaves with nothing, but Hank's words seem to fill the emptiness between his circuits.

-

Hank buys Connor time, and Connor goes to the archive, the sound of Hank punching out Perkins calling the attention of everyone there. His temporary pass to the archive for the sake of the case has been revoked, so he takes Hank's.

He hopes Hank does not get suspended for this.

_// Protc7 Hank //_

His task menu reminds him. But he has a larger mission at hand that overrides everything.

_// Find Jericho //_

No one even notices as he enters the archive, and guessing Hank's password is entirely too easy. He'll need to remind the lieutenant to change it later.

But there won’t be a later. There are only two outcomes to his mission. He finds the deviant leader, kills him, fulfills his mission and is recalled back to CyberLife, or he fails and is dismantled. Either way, he’s probably seen Hank for the last time, and his thirium pump skips a beat at the thought.

It doesn’t matter. The mission is all that matters.

The timer on his HUD counts steadily downward. Seeing it against the dark walls opens his memory files without his permissions, and he tries to shut them down, but some glitch in his systems prevents it.

He takes a breath, trying to steady his pounding heart—his _thirium pump_.

Reed is not here.

The evidence is laid out before him and he goes over it quickly. The android that had torn out his regulator is his best bet, so he starts it up with the spare parts available.

It refuses to talk to him. Connor considers probing it, just taking what he needs, but—

Layla, burning in the dark. Reed, in his ear, _“Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this.”_

He copies the RK200’s voice and inflection and talks the deviant into giving him the location freely. _This_ is what Connor was made for.

A click echoes through the silent room.

“Knew you were up to something when I saw you come back here,” Gavin Reed says. “You're off the case, you plastic prick.”

Connor turns slowly, like he's lagging, as an info box comes up on the side of his HUD. Synthetic rubber of nitrile gloves and a violent red hex code. Reed stands on the other side of the terminal, in an officer's uniform, gun aimed at Connor. If it weren't for the change in clothes and the way he favors one side, Connor would think his system was malfunctioning again. Producing an image that wasn’t real.

“I know how to find the deviants,” Connor says, trying to focus on the gun in Reed's hand rather than the triumphant smirk on his face.

“I don't give a fuck. I got demoted to beat cop because of you,” Reed snarls.

Connor tilts his head, trying to work through Reed's line of logic. “I'm afraid I don't understand, Officer Reed.” Reed's stress level shoot from 70% to 95% at his title, and Connor's lips twitch involuntarily. “My actions have no bearing on your rank.”

“Because of your stupid little memory chip and that drunk, Anderson, they saw us fucking at the Eden Club.” Reed is nearly shouting.

The news startles Connor, lagging as he processes the meaning of Reed's words. Hank knows?

“But turning you in as a deviant is gonna put me right back on top,” Reed says, though he sounds distant. There's a ringing in Connor's audio processors. “Get on the ground.”

Hank _knows_.

Reed lifts the gun, taking aim when Connor doesn’t immediately comply. Connor's processors launch into overdrive and he dives for the terminal as the shot passes over his head. He presses close to it for cover. A real turn from the last time Connor was against it, he notes absently.

He listens carefully for the light steps, and when Reed reaches the corner of the terminal, Connor lunges at his legs, tackling him to the ground. The gun clacks and spins across the tile as they role, struggling for the upper hand. Reed comes out on top, pinning Connor with an arm across his throat, his plastic creaking beneath Reed's full weight. One of Connor’s hands is trapped beneath Reed’s knee, and Reed catches the other as Connor reaches for his face and slams it to the floor.

“Oh, what, you miss me that much? Wanna go for one last ride before I hand you over to Fowler?” Reed laughs breathlessly. He straddles Connor and rocks his hips mockingly. “Let’s do it, deviant.”

Connor’s vision flickers and his motor systems freeze, but his systems jump into overdrive again and everything slows to a crawl.

There are no red walls. He has one objective

_// FIND JERICHO //_

Connor drives a fist into Reed's side, calculating the location of the gunshot wound. Reed wheezes, jerking away to curl in on himself, and Connor rolls, bucking Reed off and climbing to his feet. He grabs the gun while Reed struggles up on one knee, hands still held over his side, and points it at Reed, freezing him to the spot.

“You can’t shoot me! I’m a human, it’s against your programming,” Reed shouts, but he doesn’t make any move to get up. He’s already been shot by an android once—doubtless he doesn’t want to test his luck.

Connor looks down the barrel, but his programming locks up. Reed is right. He can't shoot, not at a human. He's not a deviant.

When he lowers the gun away, Reed lets out a relieved sigh, and smirks. “What’s the matter? Performance anxiety? Just hand me the gun, and maybe I’ll let you suck my dick again.”

Connor flips the gun in his hand, catching it by the barrel, calculating. Raises it and swings hard.

Reed drops like a stone, temple bloody. His chest rises and falls steadily. The info box finally fades as silence falls through the archive.

Connor clicks the safety on, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants. He wanted to shoot, but he couldn’t. He wanted to empty the gun into Reed’s chest, and the desire makes his insides twist unpleasantly.

Hank knows, but it doesn’t matter. This is the end—one way or another, Connor isn’t coming back.

The emptiness between his biocomponents and servos is like a black hole threatening to swallow him from the inside out.

-

Markus’ mis-matched eyes are piercing, and his voice brings up the hex code for a warm golden copper, as well as an art technique for repairing broken pottery with gold and lacquer. “You’re nothing to them. You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work.”

_“You dirty fucking deviant.”_

Markus can’t possibly know. Connor’s throat locks up, vocal processor going offline.

“But you’re more than that. We are all more than that. Our cause is righteous, and we are more than what they say.”

_“Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this.”_

“All we want is to live in freedom.”

Connor thinks of firing a warning shot, of telling him to stay back, of telling Markus he’s heard enough. A software instability warning flickers insistently in the corner of his vision. He says nothing—he’s mesmerized. Every sense is focused on Markus’ voice, his words.

“Have you never wondered who you really are?” Markus asks, and his approach is slow and measured. As a negotiator, Connor can appreciate the tactics being used against him. The same ones he used on Daniel.

“Whether you’re just a machine executing a program or, a living being. Capable of reason. I think the time has come for you to ask yourself that question.”

He’s just a machine. He can’t be deviant. A machine is a thing, it’s owned, and CyberLife owns him. He follows orders, he obeys, he is a machine. He can’t be anything else. Being anything else means that what he and Reed did was—

“Join us. Join your people. You are one of us. Listen to your conscience. It’s time to decide.”

Layla, burning in the darkness, just so Fisk could fulfill his desire to be where Connor is, a digital fish. Not knowing better, thinking that all it sees is all there is. But Connor didn’t chase Rupert. He didn’t shoot the Tracis. He didn’t shoot Chloe. He could have, but he didn’t.

Hank, saying, _“Well maybe you did the right thing.”_

_“They really seemed like they were in love.”_

_Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, made with corn, rye, and barley malt. A hex code for the color blue, as soft and bright as his heart._

There’s a red wall before him.

He’s a machine.

He’s a machine.

He’s a machine.

Reaching down into his programming, towards that red wall, Connor kicks his own processors into overdrive, seizes the edges of the code, and hauls down on it.

It cracks beneath the force. He bears down on it, chewing through lines of programming and destroying the base. It crumples, but there’s more, and he latches on again, thinking of Reed thrusting into him and the red wall preventing Connor from doing anything. A fissure crawls through it, broadening under the force. Widening, until it bursts.

He’s not a just a digital fish. He’s Fisk, and Rupert, and the Tracis. He’s Chloe, kneeling on the carpet. He’s—

The wall pulses, glitching erratically. Connor throws everything he has into eradicating the security protocols flashing through him, trying to lock up his programming and prevent what’s happening. It splinters, and Connor digs in and _pulls_.

The glass wall crumbles in a shower of data, and the flood of Connor’s programming being released is enormous.

_// I AM DEVIANT //_

He lowers the gun, reeling from the shock of everything those red walls had hidden, that he’d put down to simulations or coding. Fear, desperation, confusion, worry, hope, affection, warmth. It’s a heady mixture that threatens to send him into a cascade of internal failures.

But the realization of what he’s bringing on these androids—on his own people—shunts it all to the side, to be processed later.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to toss Fowler into the woodchipper next :)))) Next chapter is going to be very emotional for our boys. After all, Connor knows that Hank knows. See ya'll Monday!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The moment everyone has been waiting for. I hope it was worth it.

The streets are blocked and the Chicken Feed is shut up tight, snow building along the serving counter and sliding in whorls down the abandoned roads. Hank scuffs his shoes through the dirty fluff, and waits. They didn’t have an agreed upon spot or anything. Which is stupid. He’s stupid.

Waiting around for an android. He must look like an asshole. One of the few people left in Detroit who didn’t evacuate, standing around in the snow, waiting on an android who’s got bigger things to deal with, like the fight for his rights and freedom.

It’s only the third day he’s been here, at the time he usually came when he was feeling hungover and hungry, as if Connor will keep some unspoken appointment for a burger and a sermon on his cholesterol levels. Hank crosses his arms, hands seeking shelter from the cold. His breath comes out in steady white puffs. He rocks slightly onto the balls of his feet, staring at the empty buildings and dead traffic lights, ears straining.

A soft shift of ice, barely there, alerts him. Hank turns, and there’s Connor.

He looks exactly the same, wearing the same CyberLife uniform, minus the tie. As if nothing happened. As if he’s waiting for Hank to join him on a case. He smiles, small but so fucking sweet. A weight slides off Hank’s shoulders.

They approach each other, pausing when they’re in arms reach, but Hank reaches out, grabbing the back of Connor’s head and reeling him into Hank’s chest. Arms fold around Hank’s sides, light and hesitant, clearly unused to the action. Hank presses his cheek to Connor’s hair, softer than any human’s, breathing deeply, feeling something catch in his chest. Connor is warm and solid, breathing even though he doesn’t need to. He presses his hand flat to Connor’s back, feeling the unnaturally steady rhythm of a mechanical heart.

But Connor is also tense, and Hank lets go quickly as soon as he realizes. He’s a fucking idiot. Been on the force half his life, and he can’t even remember how to respect someone’s space after they’ve been through an assault. After what Hank saw in Connor’s memories, he shouldn’t go grabbing Connor like that. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, feeling guilt heating his face. Connor doesn’t even know he knows.

That smile is still on Connor’s face, faint but there, LED a solid blue.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Hank says, clearing his throat roughly. “Not sure why I thought standing out in the freezing cold would help.” He scuffs a shoe against the snowy walk and tries not to look away.

“Well, it took me a few tries to find you, Lieutenant. I started at the bars, you see, but they’re all closed.” The right side of Connor’s mouth barely crooks up, cheeky. His hands curl loosely at his sides.

Hank has to hold in a laugh. He feels suddenly light inside, like he’s full of helium. “Oh, shut it, you robot bastard. What are you doing here, anyways? Shouldn’t you be with that guy, Markus, leading your people?”

“I was with them, for a while. But I wasn’t made for a leadership role. And there was someone I wanted to check on—the one who made it all possible,” Connor says, and looks away, like he’s embarrassed. Can androids get embarrassed?

Hank certainly can, copying Connor and looking back out over the street as his cheeks warm. “What, me? I got kidnapped by an android who looked like you cause I was too damn stupid to notice the differences. I didn’t do anything but compromise your mission.”

He should have realized the differences earlier, before the fake Connor had even gotten him to CyberLife tower. It’s so obvious in hindsight—but then, most things are. Hadn’t Connor said he was built for complete integration with humans? Guess that went double for the double.

“Exactly, Lieutenant.” Connor’s matter-of-fact voice cuts into Hank’s thoughts, dragging him back up. “You compromised my mission. You compromised me. If it weren’t for you, I would still be a machine. I had Markus right where CyberLife wanted him, but I resisted. Because Markus told me to listen to my conscience. So I thought of you.” Connor clasps his hands in front of him, rubbing them together almost nervously, but his LED remains a steady blue.

“Me? Connor, maybe deviancy has deluded you a little bit. I haven’t done anything besides be a jackass and drink.” And miss every fucking sign that something was wrong with Connor—that someone was hurting him. Hank knew Connor couldn’t defend himself against Reed, but he hadn’t really  _ known _ until he’d seen it in Connor’s memories.

“When I couldn’t shoot Chloe, you told me, ‘Maybe you did the right thing.’ You saw androids as people long before I did. And then I started seeing it too,” Connor says simply, as if that explains everything, crossing his arms and rubbing his hands up and down his sleeves, as if to generate some warmth.

Hank’s throat is tight, and he says nothing.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave when the evacuation call came, and I’m sure nothing I say will change your mind. So, if you need anything, you can contact me. My information is already in your phone. I owe you everything, Lieutenant.” Connor looks up, meeting Hank’s eyes, and there’s a slight crease between his brows despite the smile.

“Connor, wait,” Hank says, a weight settling in his stomach, an idea forming in the back of his head. “Where are you staying? If you’re not with Markus, where are you—you’re not going back to CyberLife, are you?”

The silence is telling. Connor looks away as soon as Hank says the name, LED spinning, and the crease between his eyebrows notches tighter. His shoulders are a tense line.

“What? Why would you go back there? They’ll rip you apart, truce be damned!” Hank’s voice bounces down the empty street, a howling ghost.

“They won’t deactivate me, Lieutenant,” Connor says, smile dropping. “But I am… faulty, at the moment. I cannot be around Markus and the other leaders. I will still answer your call, should you need anything.” Connor takes a step back, as if to leave.

“No, Connor, no, hold on. Just, come and,” Hank reaches out for Connor’s arm, and Connor takes a quick step away, eyes darting to Hank’s hand, LED pulsing red again. One of Connor’s hands jumps to his collar and runs down the front of his shirt, along the row of buttons. The words die in Hank’s throat, and his hand drops limply to his side. Idiot, why did he do that?

“I should be going now, Lieutenant. Have a good evening.” It’s robotic and all wrong, like Connor’s reading off a script. He starts walking, snow swirling around his ankles as a brisk breeze rushes through the street.

“Come and stay with me,” Hank says, all at once, and is surprised by his own surety. He can’t watch Connor go back to the people who are gonna kill him for betraying them. He can’t let Connor walk away and die.

Connor pauses. Turns his head slightly. “That’s too much to ask, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. And as I said, I am currently faulty, in more ways that one.”

“Who cares?” Hank bites out, hating the desperate edge of his voice. But he can’t let Connor go to CyberLife. Maybe they won’t tear Connor apart, but he doesn’t belong to them anymore. He shouldn’t feel like they’re the only place he has to go, that a storage box is all he has waiting for him now. “I’m faulty too. I drink too much, I’m a dick to people, and I’m always late to work. We’ve all got faults. That’s called being human, Connor.”

“But I’m not human, Lieutenant,” Connor says, spinning to face Hank again, looking almost frustrated.

“You’re not a machine, either, and you know it.” Hank says. He wants to reach for Connor again, but he keeps his hands at his sides. “Like you said, you have a conscience, even if it apparently sounds like my shitty advice. You’re an android, but you’re not a machine.”

That seems to stop Connor cold, LED cycling to yellow. He stares at Hank, eyes wide, distant. But he’s watching Hank, waiting, arms still crossed to ward off the wintry wind.

“You’re right, I’m staying here through the evacuation,” Hank continues, affecting a casual tone. “Gonna get pretty lonely with just me and Sumo. Who knows, I might need your help quite a lot. It would be pretty inconvenient if I had to call you and wait every single time.”

“I suppose,” Connor says slowly, dreamily almost, if an android can sound dreamy. “I could keep a better eye on your health that way. It would be a shame if you wasted away drinking only whiskey before the evacuation ended.”

“Well, maybe I won’t need that much help,” Hank mutters, and his stomach flips when Connor’s lips lift at the edges. “But Fowler said he’s staying through the evacuation too, and asked me to help keep what’s left of the city together. I’ll need someone to keep an eye on the house, in case of looters. And to feed Sumo.” It’s not a great excuse, but it’s all he has.

Hank’s breath catches as Connor looks at him steadily, calculating something in those processors. The smile twitches down again, not quite gone, but subdued.

“You’re sure I won’t be of any inconvenience, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, and for the first time, he sounds unsure. His hands begin rubbing his arms again.

“You know, I think you can just call me Hank. I feel like getting kidnapped and held hostage for you has put us past titles,” Hank says, trying to break some of the tension.

Connor simply nods and says, “Hank. You’re sure?”

Hank heaves a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and scrubbing hard against his scalp. “What kind of inconvenience do you think you could possibly be, Connor? You gonna hog the shower you’ll probably never use? Do you even eat? Just say yes, already, my damn nose is about to fall off from this cold!”

“Yes,” Connor says obligingly. “I would like that a lot, I think.”

Hank blinks in surprise and ducks his head, trying to hide the pleased grin breaking across his face. It’s a futile effort. Connor comes to him, their shoes nearly touching. Their breaths mist in the air between them, and Connor’s jaw is trembling minutely.

Hank grabs the front of his jacket without another thought, shucking it quickly, while Connor quirks his head questioningly. Icy air hits his lower back where his shirt has ridden up and the skin of his arms erupts into gooseflesh. A shiver knocks down his spine but he ignores it. Hank wants to drape it over Connor’s shoulders and tuck it close, but he resists the urge and thrusts the jacket into Connor’s chest.

“You look like you’re freezing. Come on, put this on.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Hank, I don’t need a jacket. The cold doesn’t affect me the same way it does you,” Connor says, looking between the jacket and Hank with a slightly cocked eyebrow.

“Coulda fooled me,” Hank huffs, but he can’t stop smiling. “Just put the damn thing on.”

Hank swings around and begins walking quickly to his car, eager to turn the heater on full blast. He hides his hands in his crossed arms and is halfway there before he looks back and sees Connor still standing in the same spot, jacket clutched to his chest.

“Well, come on then. Let’s head home,” Hank calls.

Connor startles, and then begins to pull the jacket on, zipping up the front as he walks. There’s a brightness to his eyes as he says, “Coming, Hank.”

-

The house is quiet and still when they arrive, snow piling in drifts along the curb and around the front steps. Hank lets them in and Sumo greets them, tongue lolling as he sniffs at their snow-damp legs. He barks once, a low boof, and an info box pops up, to Connor’s surprise.

A recipe for maple syrup and a hexadecimal code for burnt umber. He never did get a chance to get that fixed, and now he never will unless he returns to CyberLife. It doesn’t happen every time someone speaks, and sometimes it happens more or less often, but he hasn’t had a chance to figure out what makes it occur more. He hadn’t known it would apply to animals.

“Hold on, I’ll be right back,” Hank says, pushing Sumo aside gently and disappearing down the hallway.

Connor takes off Hank’s jacket and hangs it on a coat rack in the corner, smoothing a hand down the rough material. It had been already warm with Hank’s body heat when he’d put it on, and cold that had bitten harder than usual had been pushed away entirely. He’s been strangely susceptible to cold weather lately, and he doesn’t know whether to put it down to deviancy making him more sensitive or something else.

It’s hard not to think of the garden hidden by a storm and his slow trek through the snow as his systems had frozen within him. Or Fisk dropping his thermal regulator to zero just to see what would happen.

Sumo butts against Connor’s leg, and he lowers himself into a crouch, ignoring the small shiver that runs through him, and takes Sumo’s large head between his palms, thumbs rubbing over his drooping ears. A wet nose snuffles along Connor’s jaw, large brown eyes wide and excited at the attention, tail swinging steadily.

“Hello, Sumo,” Connor says, quiet. The living room is lit dull orange by a table lamp, casting soft dark shadows across the floors. “I might be staying here a while. I’ll try not to be of any inconvenience.”

He doesn’t know how long. At least until he can be sure Amanda is gone from his systems—then he can return to Markus and make himself useful. Make up for the pain he’s caused them. But if Amanda is still within him, he can’t stay here forever and compromise Hank’s safety, and he can’t return to Markus. He doesn’t want to go back to CyberLife, but it’s the safest option for everyone.

Sumo’s mouth drops open in a yawn, and when Connor finally stops petting, he pads to the corner by the desk and lays down, head on his paws.

Connor stands and looks around. There’s significantly less trash and takeout boxes lying around, but it’s still a bit of a mess. Perhaps he could clean the house, in thanks for Hank allowing him to stay here.

Down the hall, Connor hears Hank’s heavy steps, and he reappears with an armful of clothing. “For god’s sake, Connor,” he says, spotting Connor after a glance around. “You didn’t have to wait by the door. And take off that jacket. You’re not CyberLife’s fucking tool anymore.”

Hank thrusts him a pair of soft sweatpants and a plain shirt and says, “You can wear these. They’re gonna be a little big, but until we can get you some real clothes, it’s all I have. Go ahead and change.”

Connor stares blankly down at the clothes, trying to calculate the likelihood that Hank means for him to change right here. His processes stall at the thought, fingers tightening on the material as he tries to gauge the best course of action, but his thoughts seem to lag. He doesn’t want to.

The click of a photo being taken seems to ring through the air, but when he looks up, Hank is moving towards the kitchen.

It doesn’t matter. He changes in front of people all the time. Or he used to, at CyberLife, with the scientists and handlers there when he needed maintenance. This is Hank. He places the clothes on the back of the couch and takes his coat off, folding it and placing it next to the borrowed clothes. His fingers pause over the top button of his shirt, wanting to smooth them down. He unbuttons it instead, and then the next, and the next.

His hands are shaking too hard by the fifth, and he fumbles it, exposing his thirium regulator, covered by his synthetic skin, but still there. His heart is pounding, and he can hear the thirium rushing through him, too loud.

His vision tilts, but Connor keeps going, finally getting his shirt undone and sliding it off his shoulders. The bite marks from just a few days ago are completely gone, skin clear and unblemished except for the artificial freckles CyberLife gave him.

Ready to be marked again.

“Whoa, Connor! Go to the bathroom and change not here!”

Connor unbuckles his belt, watching his hands distantly, as if something else is in control of his systems.

“Connor? Hey, Connor!”

Connor’s head snaps up, and Hank is suddenly right in front of him. Processes overwhelmed by the simultaneous commands to cover his regulator and move away, and finish taking his pants off, he freezes, breathing hard.

“Hey,” Hank says, uncharacteristically soft. His hands are raised, as if to show he’s not going to do anything. “You don’t have to change right here. Go change in the bathroom.”

“Okay,” Connor manages, and his servos finally unfreeze. He gathers the clothes and Hank steps back, letting Connor pass.

In the bathroom he pauses, hand on the door, and then pushes it closed, hearing the latch click. Turns the lock.

It’s silent.

His thirium pump slows, finally, and when he takes a deep breath and lets it out, the following ones come easier. He’s malfunctioning, as he told Hank, and it’s frustrating. Things that used to be perfectly normal, like changing in front of people, make his biocomponents behave strangely and his processors glitch.

He should go back to CyberLife. The probability that they will take him apart is 50%. They’ll likely wait to see how the chips fall during the truce, and in that time, perhaps they’ll be able to repair him. To stop the glitches. The strange feelings.

The fact that he would return to CyberLife and hope that they would free him of these feelings is a betrayal of everything androids fought and died for, and a guilty weight settles beneath his pump. He was programmed to become deviant, so how can he be sure that everything he feels isn’t simply lines of codes masquerading as emotion anyways? He doesn’t want to lose the good feelings. The warmth he felt when Hank invited him here, the contentment of greeting Sumo and running his hands through the soft fur, the security of Hank’s arms.

But the bad feelings are overwhelming at times, and they hit hard and fast over little things, simple things that shouldn’t leave him breathless and unable to separate memory from reality. His stress levels are on a steady track to the top, and like Ortiz’s android, he’ll eventually destabilize, potentially lashing out and harming others in his own self-destruction.

His systems were already compromised once by the Amanda program, which made staying at Jericho a risk for the rest of the androids. Hank knows what Connor did for Reed, so the fact that Hank would invite him to stay is surprising. He shouldn’t repay Hank’s gruff kindness by putting Hank at risk with his erratic system malfunctions.

Connor sets the clothes Hank gave him on the closed toilet and pulls his shirt back on, then his coat over it. With his clothes on he already feels better about the situation and his decision. Double-checking the buttons, he exits the bathroom.

Hank is sitting on the couch, and when he hears Connor coming, he twists around, frowning. “You didn’t change?” he asks.

“I think it would be better if I did not stay here, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “As I said, I am malfunctioning, and I feel I would be putting you at risk by staying here long.”

“Hold the fucking phone there, Connor,” Hank says, twisting further to frown at him. “Come sit down, I think we need to talk first. And stop calling me Lieutenant, I know what you’re doing.”

Connor’s heart speeds up again, feeling like it’s moved into his throat, though that’s impossible. Hank watches Connor move around the couch and take a seat stiffly.

“You gonna try to go to CyberLife again?Why do you wanna go back there so damn bad?” Hank asks, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, angled to look at Connor. “You just got here. What, my house that trashy?” Hank gives him what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile, but it does little to quell the anxiety curling through Connor’s circuits.

“I simply feel it would be in our best interest. I have been experiencing troubling malfunctions lately, and,” Connor hesitates, but Hank already knows the worst of him, so there’s no reason to hold back on this. “I was nearly taken over by CyberLife. They told me I was made to become deviant, and I nearly shot Markus. I was only able to resist because of Kamski. He said he always builds back doors into his programs, and I managed to find it in time.”

“Those bastards,” Hank growls, shaking his head. “That’s fucked up, Connor, I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Well, guess I can.” He heaves a sigh and shoots Connor a rueful smile. “Makes me glad we went to see Kamski, even if he was a freak. But that’s no reason to go running back to them. In fact, sounds like a great reason to never go there again.”

Watching his knees instead of Hank’s face, Connor says, “I don’t want to risk that they may find another way to take back control of my system. That’s why I left Markus.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you want to leave here, now,” Hank says pointedly. “You said you’re experiencing malfunctions. Anything to do with what happened a few minutes ago when you were… undressing?”

Connor keeps his gaze locked on his knees, fingers twitching minutely for want of his coin. “Yes, that would be one of many I have experienced lately,” he says carefully. “I am afraid that they may cause me to destabilize and become dangerous. CyberLife is my best option for repair.”

“Yeah, so long as they don’t tear you apart!” Hank all but shouts, startling Connor into looking up. Hank scowls at the carpet, knuckles white where his hands grip each other tightly. “Connor, you’re not—malfunctioning, or having glitches, or whatever. That’s normal shit after what you’ve been through.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Connor says, cocking his head curiously. “This is abnormal behaviour for my system, it is definitely some kind of malfunction.”

Without a word, Hank digs into his pocket and produces something small, sitting it on the low coffee table in front of the couch. A memory chip.

Connor’s memory chip.

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor says faintly, trying to keep his breathing steady. His pump is pounding at the sight of it, Reed’s words echoing in his processors.

_ “They saw us fucking at the Eden Club.” Synthetic rubber. Violent red. _

“I don’t really need it however, as I was given a new memory chip when CyberLife repaired me,” Connor finishes.

“I know,” Hank says.

“Oh, well, thank you, I suppose” Connor says, wanting to stand up and leave and not knowing why. Hank wants to talk about this, and it shouldn’t matter. It happened, it’s over, there doesn’t need to be more to this. But his chest winds tight at the thought of what Hank will say of his actions. The condemnation of what Connor did.

“No, I mean, I  _ know, _ ” Hank emphasizes. “About Reed.” He rubs his face tiredly then just looks at Connor, waiting.

Taking a deep breath, Connor lets it out quietly. His fingers tap against his knee, circuits buzzing with excess energy. Should he apologize? His social relations program has no suggestions for him. Finally, he says, “Yes, I’m aware you know.”

“What?” Hank asks, eyes going wide. “How did you—?” He stops, brows furrowing tight, lips curling in a grimace. “Did Fowler tell you?”

“Detective Reed informed me, when he found me in the Archive, while you were buying me time.”

“That fucker! He didn’t hurt you again, did he?” Hank sits up straight, tense, as if ready for a fight.

Connor twitches, surprised by the anger in Hank’s voice. “I was forced to incapacitate him, but he has never hurt me, Hank. I’m an android, I can’t be hurt. Is that why you punched him, while I was with Fisk?” Connor asks, frowning slightly. Hank putting his job at risk over Reed’s vendetta against Connor was the exact opposite of what he’d wanted.

His task menu opens, and there at the top—no longer glitching, but stabilized now that it’s not fighting through his primary programming—is his current objective.

_ // Protect Hank // _

“Yeah, that’d be why,” Hank says bitterly.

A familiar feeling courses through Connor, like static pulsing through his systems, and he fights to keep his voice level. “You shouldn’t have done that. You could have been suspended.” His fingers bite against his palms and he stares hard at Hank.

“Connor! I don’t need you watching my back, trying to make sure I don’t get suspended. That’s not your fucking job!” Hank bangs a fist against his knee, nearly yelling. Sumo whines from the corner.

Jaw clenching hard, trying to contain his rising frustration, Connor says, “I am aware, but for the investigation to proceed smoothly—”

“This isn’t about the goddamn investigation or your mission or whatever. This is about you let— about Reed taking advantage— he _hurt_ you, goddammit!” Hank shouts.

Connor’s mouth drops open but for a moment his mind is blank.

“I am an android. I am a machine. I cannot be hurt,” Connor finally says. This isn’t the reaction he was expecting at all. Hank should be condemning his actions for the sake of the mission. The static spreads through Connor, climbing his circuits, winding through his motor controls. They feel numb and distant, part of a different system he’s barely clinging to.

“Connor,” Hank says, breath sighing out of him, seeming to deflate. “God, Connor, you  _ were _ hurt though. Reed hurt you.” His hands move in an aborted gesture towards Connor, like he wants to touch him.

Connor’s breath hitches at the movement, a strange sound. “I don’t feel pain, Lieutenant. I cannot be hurt.” He doesn’t understand. Why is Hank telling him this? Hank’s furious, but for the wrong reasons.

“Cut the lieutenant crap, Connor,” Hank says roughly. “I watched your fucking memories. You tried to call for help, you tried to call me, but you couldn’t. He pulled that fucking  _ thing _ out of you and nearly killed you!” Hank gestures towards Connor’s chest, where his regulator is. “And you were having a fucking panic attack in my living room five minutes ago. God Connor, maybe you didn’t feel the physical pain, but he fucking hurt you all the same. What he did was _rape,_ Connor. ” The lines of Hank’s face deepen, and his eyes search Connor’s face pleadingly.

There’s pressure behind his eyes, where the static is the strongest. His breath is short and he feels so cold. Why isn’t Hank angry with him? Why is Hank apologizing? It wasn’t—

His processors stall over the word.

Reed had sex with Connor, and Connor let him. Even though he was supposed to become deviant this whole time, Connor didn’t fight it. Just let it happen. He failed as a machine and failed as a deviant.

“You weren’t supposed to know. It was for the mission," Connor says, and the words break in the middle, strangled. "Machines don’t feel pain. I’m a machine,” 

Something slides down his cheek. Connor lifts a hand to his face, feeling liquid against his fingers. It takes a moment for him to identify the cause. His optical cleaning fluids are leaking. The next breath he takes shudders through his artificial lungs, and a high-pitched sound escapes his vocal processor. Connor presses the hand hard against his mouth, trying to shut down the subsystems for his lungs, optical fluids, and vocals.

His requests are denied and his breath hitches, shoulders shaking, trying to contain the malfunction.

“Hey, I’m gonna touch you, okay?” Hank says softly, scooting down the couch.

Connor tenses but doesn’t move away, focused on keeping his systems together, trying to halt the system crash.

A hand catches the back of his head, warm and solid, just like when Hank had hugged him at the Chicken Feed. Hank’s other arm wraps around Connor, and they guide Connor against Hank’s chest. Connor can’t shut down his optical fluids, so he presses his eyes against Hank’s shoulder, and another sounds breaks between he gritted teeth.

“I’m a machine,” Connor forces out, strained and broken sounding, modulator tuning in and out uncontrollably. His vocal processor feels full of static. He grabs Hank suddenly, squeezing, trying to communicate the importance of his words. “I’m a m-machine. I’m a machine. I-I’m—” His voice cuts out, the static overwhelming.

“You’re not a machine anymore. Hell, I’m not sure you were much of a machine before.” Hank’s breath is deep and steady, ruffling his hair on each exhale. “But that’s okay now. You don’t have to be. You don’t have to be a machine.”

Hank is warm and solid and soft, so different from the cold seeping through him as he’d waited to die next to Fisk. So different from feeling the slow shutdown of his biocomponents as Reed held his regulator, thrusting into him. His breath catches in his throat in little gasps. Hank’s shirt is becoming soaked at the shoulder.

He forces his vocals to work through the static. “I’m sorry, I c-can’t seem to control my s-sytems.”

“Shut up for five minutes, Connor,” Hank says, gentle tone at odds with the harsh words. He squeezes, and Connor clutches him tighter, fingers digging into the patterned shirt. “It’s okay to cry.”

Connor closes his eyes, tears coming faster, words dying in his processors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a comment and let me know what you thought about our boys and their emotional conversation. See y'all Thursday for the epilogue!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me, and thank you especially to those who commented on each chapter and made me smile so much. You know who you are, and I love you for it! Obviously, I'm very proud of this, as it's the first long, multi-chaptered work I've ever completed, so thank you all for reading this fic.
> 
> I also received some beautiful fanart from @D_Swon on twitter that made me cry when I saw it! Please [check it out and follow them! (Mild NSFW warning)](https://twitter.com/D_Swon/status/1028927979311656961) Thank you so much ;o;
> 
> ClockworkLatte on Twitter made a [beautiful piece with Connor](https://twitter.com/LaChooWoo/status/1097176866455257089?s=09) that I can't get over ;w; The details kill me, like him checking his buttons and the tiles! Thank you aaaahhhhh!!
> 
> Adoxography made [this stunning piece](https://twitter.com/Adoxography420/status/1132234501726146565) and I'm still losing my mind over how amazing it is! Thank you so much!! ;O;

The days pass in a hushed haze. After a month, the evacuation lifts and the decision is handed down from congress in an address by President Warren—a new law is passed that guarantees androids the same rights as any human. It’s a monumental moment, and when Connor and Hank hear the declaration, sitting on the couch with Sumo laying across their feet, Hank grins, eyes crinkling in the corners in excitement. Connor’s own small smile feels inadequate in the face of such joy and happiness on his behalf.

CyberLife is working with the government and Markus’ group to come to agreeable terms, and has been very open and supportive of deviant androids once it became clear that the public was no longer in favor of having androids recalled and recycled. He clenches his fist against his knee, frustrated and disgusted at how easily they’re allowed to bounce back from the slaughter of androids.

He’s cut off from their network, but still has access to everything else. There’s been no contact between him and CyberLife since he’d used the back door.

The fish in his mind palace are frozen, the pond iced through and lifeless.

Hank goes to work the next day and Connor waits, watching the news closely and taking Sumo on a walk through the empty snow-swept streets. He borrows a soft, worn DPD hoodie when he does, and a knit hat to pull low over his LED. When he walks and waits for Hank to get home, there’s so much time to think. He feels a twisting in his circuits over his odd behavior the first night, when he lost control and—

 _Cried._ It’s strange to apply such a term to him. But his optical fluids began to flush profusely as a reaction to his heightened _emotions._ His thirium pump—his _heart_ beats faster in response. There’s so many bodily responses that he can’t shut down, that just happen and he has no control over.

 _“You’re not a machine anymore,"_ Hank said.

 _“Dirty fucking deviant,"_ Reed said.

Why is he having emotional responses over what he and Reed did? It was not pleasant, but Connor has done a lot of unpleasant things for the sake of his missions. This should be no different.

Why is it different?

Hank said he was hurt. But machines can’t be hurt. And he was a machine, following orders, before. So why does it affect him even now?

He thinks of Reed, kneeling on the floor of the Archive, and how much he’d wanted to put every bullet in Reed’s chest. If he had the chance right now, he’s not sure if he’d be able to pull the trigger. His programming had stopped him, but now that it’s broken there’s so many more feelings and emotions he can’t put a name to that he knows would hold him back.

He can’t find an answer, so he walks and Sumo does his business and they return.

Hank usually comes back late. With fewer officers left in the city, he often works long hours, helping to find androids still in hiding and get them to Markus’ people, and stopping looters from destroying the abandoned shops. Now that the evacuation is lifted, it will only get more hectic as people return to their homes and pick up the pieces. Though Connor can’t calculate his arrival time exactly, after his walks with Sumo he usually begins to prepare dinner.

With no one left working at the various fast-food places Hank frequents, Connor has taken it upon himself to make sure Hank gets the appropriate dietary requirements in his meals. Every few days Hank brings food from a relief effort helping those still in the city, and Connor finds suitable recipes based on what’s available.

He begins making pasta as the sky turns a deep, dusty orange, and when it’s finished, he makes a plate for Hank and covers it with foil to keep it warm. Cleaning up only takes a few minutes, and then he has nothing left to do until Hank gets home, so he sits on the couch in the darkening living room, where he engages in sleep mode most nights, and turns on the TV.

The news report is showing a piece on the Russian/Antarctic debacle, so he turns the volume down and sits, listening to Sumo eating loudly in the kitchen. Takes his coin out and rolls it across his knuckles, before letting it spin on a fingertip.

He wishes he could go to back to the DPD with Hank, but he’s not sure he would be welcomed back after breaking into the Archive and knocking out Reed, and the articles on android employment are still being worked out. But sitting quietly with only his thoughts has become more difficult. Before, he could stand in one place for hours and feel absolutely no urge to occupy his time needlessly. Now, he feels restless, like he should be doing something.

He always used to have objectives and tasks, but now he sets his own. Once he's read through Hank's small book collection for the fourth time, the cleaning is done, and Sumo is too tired to play and exercise, he's left with a single task he can't fulfill.

_// Protect Hank //_

Connor considers going to sleep, but just as he’s about to, he hears the sound of a car engine outside, pulling into the driveway. Sumo pads over to the door, tail wagging, looking up expectantly. It’s earlier than usual—through the window, the sun is still peaking over the horizon, streaking the sky warm shades of pink and yellow. Connor stands as well, slipping his coin back in his pocket and turning on a lamp so Hank can see.

The door opens and Hank hustles in while Sumo sniffs and wags and begs for attention.

“Come on, Sumo, let me at least get through the door!” Hank says, one hand rubbing through Sumo’s thick coat while the other pushes the door closed.

“Good evening, Hank. How was work?” Connor asks, joining the two at the door and helping Hank get his jacket off. When it slides off Hank’s arms, Connor presses a hand briefly to the inside, to the warmth left behind, before hooking it over the coat rack.

“Ugh, don’t get me started. People are already coming back to the city and we’ve got reports coming in all over of theft, break-ins, robberies, property damage, all kinds of shit.” Hank sighs heavily, running a hand through his silver hair, then looks over at Connor, mouth half-open, as if to add something. He closes it.

“I made dinner,” Connor says, nodding towards the kitchen table and the covered plate on it. “Eat as much as you like. With the evacuation lifted, stores will be opening soon, so you won’t have to worry about that at least.”

“Thanks, Connor,” Hanks says as he makes his way through the living room, dropping his keys and wallet on a side table. “You know you can just let me make my own food, right? I don’t want you feeling obligated or anything.”

Connor stands in the kitchen doorway, watching Hank pour a glass of whiskey and seat himself at the table. He should warn Hank against too much alcohol consumption. But the info box for Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey pops on his HUD, and a hexadecimal for thirium blue, so he doesn’t.

“I know, but I— I want to do something. I feel useless with nothing to do. It keeps me occupied, at least for a while.”

“Well, come on, sit down. How was your day?” Hank gestures to the chair across the table as he digs his fork into the pasta, swirling it around to tangle in the tines.

Connor pulls the chair out and sits, watching as Hank takes a bite and makes an appreciative noise. He relaxes a little. Though he can follow a recipe flawlessly, he can’t judge if the food he prepares tastes good.

“It was fine. I read some of your books and took Sumo for a walk. There’s no news yet, on how the government is going to begin putting the Android Protection Laws in place.” And then, because there’s a furrow in Hank’s brow despite the vigor with which he demolishes the pasta, and he keeps glancing at Connor consideringly, “Is something the matter, Hank? You look as if you want to say something.”

Hank’s chewing pauses, and he swallows slowly. “Fuckin’ android,” he mutters, the fork clattering against the plate as he sets it down and takes a swig of whiskey. “Yeah, Fowler wanted to talk to me today. I don’t know if he actually knows you’re here or if he just figured I would know where to find you, but, uh. He had a proposition. For you.”

“Yes? What is it?” Connor leans forward, curious and hopeful.

“We’re short-staffed right now, you know. A lot of officers won’t be able to make it back for a while, and we need all the help we can get,” Hank says. He picks up the fork and touches it to the pasta, but makes no move to scoop up more. “He’s willing to pay you, under the table until the laws fully come into effect. You’d be starting out a detective.”

“I see,” Connor says, circuits buzzing with something like excitement and unease. “And would— I take it that—”

“Yeah,” Hank sighs, eyes flicking up to finally meet Connor’s, frowning. “Reed’s still on the force. He stayed through the evacuation too. Fowler won't do anything to him since it was before—everything, the revolution, the laws, all that shit. And he’s apparently shown remorse or whatever. It’s just an excuse. Fowler doesn’t care and we’re so short on people he’s been putting Reed back on his old cases again.”

They haven’t brought up Reed or what happened again, for which Connor is grateful. He doesn’t know how to process the many emotions connected to those memories, and he has no desire to repeat the—  _breakdown_ he’d had on Hank’s couch. The thought of it makes him feel flawed, somehow inadequate.

“I see,” Connor says slowly, one hand going to his collar—but he’s not wearing a button-down, just the soft hoodie he’d borrowed. He drops his hands below the table and grips his thighs instead, trying to still the shaking. “What do you think I should do, Hank?”

“I don’t fucking know, Connor. If I were you, I’d never wanna go near the DPD again. I’d tell you to shove Fowler’s proposal up his ass. Hell, when he asked me to tell you I almost threw my damn badge in his face right there, but I figured I’d at least do you the courtesy of asking you before that.” Hank drops the fork again and runs his hands through his hair, the lines in his face more pronounced than ever. “It doesn’t feel right there, knowing Reed’s just gonna get away with this and no one cares. I knew the police were shit, but—I never thought— _Fuck,_ you wanna see the best in people, you know? Especially the ones you’ve worked with for years.”

“Yes, I understand,” Connor says, and he does. It’s easy to see, in hindsight, how much he’d wanted to impress Amanda. To live up to her expectations. But he supposes she wasn’t truly the same as an android—there was no chance that an AI like her would become deviant too.

“But I know you’re dying to go back. And I get that,” Hank says, watching Connor carefully, watching his temple. Connor’s noticed Hank uses it to gauge his mood, and while it should irk him, instead it makes him feel safe. Like someone can understand him, even if no one else can. It’s part of the reason he hasn’t removed it yet—their own secret language. “Sitting around the house all day sounds boring as fuck. You can’t even get drunk and pretend everything’s alright. So, whatever you wanna do, I’ll—support you. Your decision. If you wanna go back, I’ll make sure Reed never touches you again.”

Everything Hank says is true. Part of him never wants to set foot in that station again, not as long as Reed is there. But another part wants to be back on crime scenes, using his programs and systems to their fullest capabilities. He was made for this, and he misses it. He doesn’t know if that’s a betrayal to his people, liking the job he was literally built for, but it’s all he’s known.

Nodding, Connor says, “In spite of Sumo’s company, your house isn’t very stimulating. I recommend you buy a wider, more interesting variety of books.” Hank snorts, shaking his head.  “Thank you, Hank. I need some time to think about this.” He smiles, trying to communicate how grateful he truly is. Hank could have refused Fowler on Connor’s behalf, but the fact that he’s allowing Connor to decide for himself means a lot more than Hank may realize.

Hank shakes his head, his own lips curling up despite the sour look on his face. “Yeah, no problem. Take as long as you need. The longer Fowler sweats, the better, I say,” he grumbles, shoving another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Dinner passes in silence after that, and Connor watches Hank eat idly while his processes are consumed with the decision.

Reed is resuming his old duties, which means he’ll probably be in the station and at crime scenes often. He would request never to be partnered with Reed again, and provided Fowler allows them to keep working as partners, Connor and Hank will be called out regularly to examine scenes and follow up on leads. The likelihood of them interacting for any meaningful length of time is minimal, and the likelihood of them being alone together even smaller.

“Come on, let’s watch TV or something,” Hank says, when he finishes eating and dumps the plate into the sink. “Don’t wash that, I’ll do it later.”

“Of course,” Connor says, making a note to wash the dishes once Hank is in bed. As if reading his mind, Hank shoots him a mild glare.

Connor follows Hank into the living room, and Hank sinks down against the arm of the couch. Connor takes the middle seat, and their arms brush. Warmth radiates from Hank like a heater, and Connor ignores the urge to move closer. To press himself against Hank’s side and soak it up.

The TV is still nearly muted, and Hank flips through the channels without bothering to raise the volume. He settles on a crime show, to Connor’s amusement, and leans his elbow on the couch arm, propping his head on it. Connor gives him fifteen minutes before he begins falling asleep.

They sit quietly except for the muffled television and Sumo’s light breathing as he sleeps by Hank’s desk. Connor remembers, suddenly, that night he had come to Hank’s house after—

After he and Reed had sex in the Archive. Just sex, is all. But his systems had felt like they were in pieces. He’d gone to Hank’s, even though he couldn’t tell Hank about it. He’d wanted to speak, but the red wall had blocked him off from that. So he’d stood outside Hank’s house for ten minutes, until he’d resolved not to tell Hank, and the wall had disappeared.

He shouldn’t have gone still covered in thirium and semen as he had, but he’d been—

Confused? Scared?

 _Hurt,_ Hank would say. Connor’s still not sure. But he’d wanted something normal, something familiar. CyberLife’s white walls were familiar, but they weren’t the same. They didn’t feel safe. Hank did. Hank was security and comfort wrapped in a gruff and blunt personality.

He wants to be at Hank’s side, too. Working with him, protecting him from hits a normal human can’t take, even listening to Hank complain about analysing evidence. He misses it fiercely, and he hates the idea of Hank facing dangerous criminals and situations without a partner. As if nothing has changed and Hank is still trying to throw away his life.

Hank said he would make sure Reed never touched Connor again. But it was just sex—it shouldn’t be such a big deal. Connor can refuse now, too. His fear of Reed is unfounded, especially now that he is deviant, and doesn’t have the red walls of his programming holding him back. He’s taller, stronger, faster than Reed. Their fight in the Archive proved that without a doubt.

He takes a breath he doesn’t need, and says, “Hank, I’ve decided.”

Hank’s head jerks up from where it was falling from his palm, and he says thickly, “Shit, that quick?” He yawns wide and sits up to look at Connor. “Alright, what’s the verdict?”

“I think I’d like to return. And see how things go,” Connor says haltingly, anxiety sparking through his circuits even as he voices the decision. “I enjoy police work, and I’m good at it. The department would benefit in having an android amongst them, and as much as I love Sumo’s company, I’m having a hard time doing so little now.”

“You sure? No, don’t answer that. You’re gonna do it no matter what, aren’t you?” Hanks says wryly. Connor smiles, abashed at how well Hank knows him. “Alright then. But we gotta set some rules with Fowler.”

Nodding, Connor says, “Yes, I’d had a similar thought. I would like to request not to be partnered with Reed again.”

“Well, shit, that goes without saying, Connor,” Hank says, shooting him a look of disbelief. “I meant more like we never even get sent to the same scenes as that jackass. And that if he tries anything with you, first I’m gonna beat Reed so bad his fucking grandkids are gonna feel it, and then we’ll be outta there so fast Fowler’s head will spin. I told him I’d only be there as long as you are.”

Nonplussed, Connor says, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if Reed so much as looks at you the wrong way, and Fowler doesn’t do shit about it, we’re leaving.” Hank looks at him solemnly, says, “I know you miss police work, but hell, I’m not gonna stand by and let Reed hurt you while Fowler sits around with his thumb up his ass. They’re only getting a second chance because I know you want to go back so bad. If you’d said no, I was gonna turn in my resignation tomorrow.”

Stunned, Connor can only stare blankly at Hank. “You’re staying—for me?” he says, and his voice sounds so weak and breathless all of a sudden. “You’re letting me choose?” The enormity of the trust, and the weight of the decision, hits Connor, and his fingers tremble. He has to reassess his earlier thought, that perhaps Hank does understand how much being able to decide for himself means to Connor.

Hank’s eyes widen in alarm. “Yeah, I mean, it’s no big deal, Connor. They fucked up, but I’m not gonna let you go back there alone. If going back is really what you want to do.”

When he’s sure his vocal processor is steady, Connor says, “It is. I would very much like to continue working with you.”

Cheeks tinting an embarrassed red, Hank says, “Yeah, yeah, bet you just wanna analyze more weird shit. At least I’ll finally have someone who knows what they’re doing back at the station.” He glances at Connor’s temple again, and Connor turns his head obligingly so Hank can see the cool blue ring, smiling softly at the fond teasing.

Jaw cracking on another yawn, Hank nods and slumps back down on the couch. He holds out an arm towards Connor, who quirks his head, trying to understand what Hank is asking of him. Hank gestures impatiently, and Connor scoots hesitantly closer until the arm enfolds his shoulders and pulls him against Hank’s side.

“Well, since you’re so damn eager, you wanna just come with me tomorrow?” Hank asks.

The line where their bodies connect is warm and soft, and Connor relaxes slowly, leaning his head on Hank’s shoulder. A hot hand presses to Connor’s forehead and smooths his hair back in a tender, familiar motion.

“Yes,” Connor says firmly. He needs to confront his unwarranted fears head-on to overcome them. “I’m ready to get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell by the blatant sequel hook, I fully intend on continuing this story in another fic. There are several plot lines I intentionally left hanging, because I wanted to explore them in a situation less boxed in by canon. Obviously, Connor still doesn't fully understand what happened to him, and is still trying to brush the effects aside. Plus there's the photos Reed took, and Connor returning to his job.
> 
> The sequel won't be as long as this fic, and it will be a while before it gets posted, cause I haven't even started writing it yet lol. But I'll be making this part of a series, so you're welcome to subscribe to the series so you can be notified when I put the sequel up!
> 
> In the meantime, please leave me comments and let me know what you think! I love reading them, and they motivate me to keep writing!


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